lijil 


/ 


GETTING  ALONG: 


o0k  of  Illustrations, 


"KNOW     THYSELF," 


IN      TWO     VOLUMES. 
VOL.   II. 


NEW     YORK: 

JAMES  C.  DERBY,  119  NASSAU  STREET. 

BOSTON:    Pim.UPis,   SAMPSON    &    CO. 

CINCINNATI  :    H.    W.    DERBY-. 

1855. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by 
J .    C .    D  E  B  B  Y , 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


THOMAS    B.    SMITH, 

STEREOTYPFR  A  ELECTROTYPER. 

216  William  Street. 


GETTING    ALONG, 


i. 

BUT  here  is  Susan  Dillon  on  our  hands  still,  and  in 
some  way  she  must  be  taken  to  the  beach. 

Very  respectably  she  shall  go,  in  the  Baldwin  carriage 
even. 

But  what  is  the  child  thinking  of? 

The  caravan  of  yesterday  ?  No.  The  fact  that  last 
night  Mr.  Baldwin  called  her  "  my  daughter  "?  No  in- 
deed. 

Without  betraying  herself  as  the  listener  of  that  con- 
versation between  Isidore  and  David  which  went  on  in 
the  library,  it  became  at  length  possible  for  her  to  name 
the  name  of  Stella  Cammon.  She  could  ask  David  if 
the  lady  about  whom  he  rallied  his  sister  at  the  break- 
fast table  was  her  Stella.  And  was  she  then  remember- 
ing what  Mr.  Falcon  had  promised,  that  he  would  him- 
self go  with  her  message  to  Miss  Stella,  because  there  was 
not  time  for  her  to  go  that  morning,  for  the  carriage  was 
already  waiting  to  convey  them  to  Harlem,  and  Susan 
was  not  to  return  to  St.  John's  ?  In  spite  of  all  the 
friendly  opposition  they  made,  Susan  had  decided  that 
on  that  day  she  would  return  to  the  beach.  It  was 
somewhat  extraordinary,  or  at  least  noticeable,  that 
David,  some  time  after  he  learned  her  decision,  changed 


fe€ 


4  GETTING   ALONG. 

his  mind  about  going  to  pay  his  respects  to  his  father's 
old  friend,  and  at  the  last  moment  followed  the  rest  of 
the  family  into  the  carriage. 

Yes— Susan  was,  above  all  things,  thinking  of  what 
she  had  heard  of  Stella  Gammon — was  drawing  pictures 
of  Stella  for  herself,  and  enduing  her  with  every  form 
and  glory  of  human  beauty ;  for  had  not  David  praised 
that  beauty  ?  and  had  not  Isidore  denied  its  existence  ? 

But  the  child  was  thinking  of  other  things  beside  .  .  . 
Of  Mr.  Falcon's  promise,  that  he  should  speedily  come 
down  to  tell  her  about  Stella,  and  of  the  quickness  and 
eagerness  with  which  Clarence  had  said  that  he  would 
come  too.  And  of  other  things.  Of  the  gifts  she  was 
conveying  in  the  basket  that  was  stowed  away  under  the 
coachman's  box — the  nice  things  for  her  father,  and  her- 
self, and  for  the  house ;  but  especially,  among  thuso 
things,  of  the  volume  David  gave  her — the  very  book 
from  which  he  read  those  poems  to  her  in  the  garden 
yesterday. 

She  was  glad  that  she  was  going  home.  Who  is  it 
that  asks  why  ?  Perhaps  it  was  because  of  the  instinct- 
ive conviction  that  home  was  the  best  place  for  her.  It 
may  have  been  the  fear  that  made  her  shrink  and  trem- 
ble so  when  David's  eyes  were  on  her.  Must  he  not 
know  how  she  had  thought  of  him  ?  It  may  have  been 
Mr.  Baldwin's  constant  "  Susy,"  or  that  more  rare  and 
remarkable  "  my  daughter,"  which  excited  and  troubled 
her,  and  she  wished  to  be  beyond  the  sound  of  the  words. 

But  then,  oh  busy,  childish  brain !  there  were  still 
other  things  to  think  of — scores  of  them.  The  Har- 
lem visit  was  immediately  at  hand ;  and  she  must  needs 
trouble  herself  vastly  about  that.  What  a  grand,  stiff, 
overwhelming  air  it  was  Isidore  assumed  now  !  and  how 
Susan  troubled  herself  thinking  of  it,  and  of  what  the 
probable  end  would  be ;  for  Isidore  was  so  different  from 


ST.  JOHN'S  AX  HARLEM.  5 

the  folks  at  Harlem,  and  then  the  contrast  between  the 
cottage  and  the  Hall ! 

Their  going  from  St.  John's  had  been  regulated  by 
the  hour  at  which  they  would  probably  arrive  at  Har- 
lem. The  bell  rung  for  twelve  o'clock  as  they  drove 
through  the  village ;  and,  to  her  great  joy,  Susan  saw 
the  children  of  the  school  running  down  the  street,  and 
Mrs.  Chilton  just  going  in  at  her  gate. 

This  was  the  morning  of  the  green-note  tribulation. 

What  Susan  exactly  anticipated  from  the  visit  it  had 
been  difficult  to  tell ;  but  she  erred  greatly  when  she 
anticipated  trepidation  in  the  heart,  or  embarrassment  in 
the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Chilton.  It  was  a  heart  that  had  grown 
in  the  atmosphere  of  fashionable  life — they  were  eyes 
which  had  seen  the  utmost  display  of  those  wonders;  and 
it  was  not  likely  that  such  an  arrival  or  interview  as  this 
at  hand  would  disconcert  her. 

She  was  equal  to  the  occasion,  to  speak  in  popular  lan- 
guage. She  received  the  guests  precisely  as  she  would 
have  done  twenty  years  ago,  when  it  was  hers  to  reign 
and  rule.  They  understood,  each  and  all  of  them  under- 
stood, Isidore  in  somewhat  of  consternation,  that  the  re- 
lation between  Mr.  Baldwin,  the  self-made,  and  herself, 
•ffas  precisely  the  same,  now  in  her  poverty,  that  it  had 
been  in  the  days  of  her  wealth.  Her  charm  of  manner 
contrived  to  throw  an  illusion  over  those  humble  rooms, 
and  her  poorly-clad,  but  graceful,  patrician  self.  The 
old-time's  conscious  power  was  again  in  her  faded  face — 
in  her  speech,  in  her  gesture.  Isidore  was  not  here  to 
bestow  patronage  or  to  exhibit  the  grace  of  condescen- 
sion, but  to  learn  of  an  apt  teacher,  of  one  who  was  strik- 
ingly alive  to  her  advantages.  Her  son  and  daughter 
were  with  her,  but  she  was  the  centre  of  the  group.  What 
smiles  she  had,  as  if,  for  all  the  world,  Miss  Scroggs  had 
never  seen  the  light,  and  a  green  note  had  never  been 


6  GETTING    ALONG. 

written,  uor  a  dirty  boy  been  found  to  bear  it !  What 
grace  she  had !  as  if  the  palm  of  empire  were  still  hers, 
and  her  conduct  the  creed  of  the  faithful !  What  speech 
was  hers  !  No  necessity  for  resignation  did  it  recognize 
— no  cause  for  lamentation ;  in  this  first  interview  no- 
thing appeared  butOthe  perfect  grace  of  a  thoroughly  cul- 
tivated woman  of  the  worldj)  the  lofty  dignity,  or  rather 
the  haughty  pride,  of  one  whose  place  was  high  among 
the  social  dignitaries  of  the  land,  whose  favor  was  life, 
and  more  than  life,  to  all  aspiring  wealth  outside  the 
magic  circle. 

It  was  she  who  made  the  impression  on  her  visitors 
that  day,  and  perfectly  she  understood  it — perfectly  she 
understood  herself  and  them.  And  the  result  of  the 
visit  was,  that  the  party  from  St.  John's  re-entered  the 
carriage  and  continued  on  their  way  to  the  beach,  with 
such  opinions  as  would  inevitably  be  deepened  and  con- 
firmed into  enthusiasm,  when  they  were  thought  over  and 
talked  about. 

What  he  had  seen  and  heard  warmed  up  old  Ishmael's 
heart,  roused  his  pity,  and  led  him  on  to  make  a  generous 
resolution.  Isidore,  too,  was  charmed  with  young  Chil- 
ton,  and  expressed  some  interest  in  the  pale  young  lady. 
who  seemed  to  be  in  such  feeble  health.  As  for  David, 
he  contented  himself  with  reclining  in  his  corner  of  the 
carriage  and  watching  the  delight  of  Susan's  face  as  she 
listened  to  all  these  amiable  things  that  were  said  of  her 
friends  in  Harlem.  The  visit  she  had  held  so  much  in 
dread  had  ended  in  rejoicing,  and  now  she  looked  back 
upon  it  and  saw  nothing  of  its  tribulation — as  a  rare  day 
of  festival  it  would  remain  in  memory. 


IF    YOU    HAD    A    CHILDHOOD. 


II. 

OUR  little  Susan  must  go  up  and  report  herself  to  Mr. 
Leighton.  It  is  but  three  days  .  .  .  it  is  an  age ! 

As  she  goes  about  the  cabin,  opening  the  doors  and 
windows,  so  that  the  fresh,  warm  sunlight  may  come  in, 
thinking  of  all  she  has  seen  and  heard  in  these  past  days, 
again  and  again  comes  up  before  her  mind  the  student 
in  the  mill.  He  will  have  so  many  questions  to  ask  about 
her  visit  .  .  .  and  what  shall  she  tell  him  ?  There  is  so 
much  to  tell ! 

Think  of  your  return  home  from  your  first  visit  to 
"  the  city,"  my  own  dear,  next-door,  country  neighbor ! 
.  .  .  But  perhaps  you  had  no  old  student  who,  you  knew, 
was  waiting  for  your  coining,  at  least  anticipated  it,  in 
the  topmost  chamber  of  an  old  red  mill !  Ah,  but  there 
was  some  blessed  old  soul  that  you  loved  or  feared,  per- 
haps both,  to  whom  you  must  unbosom  yourself,  on  whom 
you  must  throw  the  burden  of  all  your  experience. 

Mr.  Leighton  would  be  sure  to  question  her  in  such 
strange  ways !  She  could  not  prepare  her  answers  in  ad- 
vance. He  would  not  be  content  with  hearing  of  the 
sights  that  she  had  seen — about  the  Hall,  and  the  gar- 
dens, and  the  caravan — if  he  only  would !  but  he  would 
not.  She  shrunk  from  appearing  before  that  tribunal. 

And  so  she  lingered  and  delayed. 

Down  on  the  lowly  door-step  she  seated  herself,  and 
looked  around  upon  the  barrenness  of  the  coast,  and  out 
upon  the  sea.  The  sound  of  the  dashing  waves  filled  her 
with  melancholy 

Reader,  had  you  a  childhood  ?  .  .  .(jThere  have  then, 
certainly,  been  days,  hot  Saturday  afternoons,  blessings  on 
their  memory !  when  you  toiled  over  hills,  and  waste 
places  of  dead  level,  for  the  sake  of  losing  yourself  in 


8  GETTING   ALONG. 

the  greenness  of  the  dark  forest,  where  the  treasures  of 
moss,  and  mandrakes,  and  sorrel  were.  You  and  your 
little  friend,  may  heaven  bless  you  both,  if  your  little 
friend  is  still  among  the  living,  and  you  unbereft,  wan- 
dering in  the  lonely  woods,  have  followed  the  winding  of 
the  stream,  where,  along  its  humble  pathway  through  the 
woods,  it  bore  its  burden  of  fallen  leaves ;  and  in  your 
wanderings  you  have  come  at  length  upon  an  opening 
where  the  trees  were  cut  away,  or  had  fallen,  or  for  some 
reason  were  not,  and  you  noticed  there,  surely  your  young 
eyes  did,  how  the  majestic  heavens  found  their  reflection 
even  in  that  tiniest  of  brooklets.  You  followed  it  on, 
do  I  not  know  you  did,  still  on,  through  new  shades,  and 
more  dense,  until  finally  you  came,  you  and  that  little 
friend,  with  her  hands  full  of  flowers  and  her  bosom  of 
the  green,  moist  wood  moss,  until  you  came  suddenly 
upon  a  horror  of  stagnation — a  place  were  the  bright 
waters  were  impeded  in  their  progress,  choked  by  leaves 
and  stones,  by  some  unnatural  obstruction,  turned  aside 
and  spread  out  in  a  marsh !  and  with  a  shuddering  fore- 
boding of  foul  worms,  and  snakes,  and  toads,  you  went 
hastily  away.  Do  I  not  know  ?  Have  not  I  also  been 
getting  along  also,  all  this  while,  do  you  think,  oh  reader  $ 

Was  such  stagnation,  was  such  death  as  this  before 
our  Susan  ?  Some  such  imagining  was  floating  through 
her  fancy.  Some  such  question  as  this  she  asked  herself, 
as,  sitting  in  the  silence,  the  crowds  of  city  streets,  the 
many  and  varied  voices  she  had  heard,  passed  through  her 
mind.  (Monotonous  roar  of  ocean,  where  was  now  thy 
music  ?  She  had  heard  tlie  roar  of  carriage-wheel.",  the 
clash  of  human  voices  !  and  the  music  of  life  was  in  them. 
[Give  to  a  child  a  drum,  will  not  the  roll  that  he  beats  out- 
BOund  all  the  music  of  nature  to  him  ?/ 

The  soft,  bewildering  beauty  of  the  gardens  belonging 
to  the  Hall,  the  green  and  scrupulously-kept  lawn — and 


HOME    WHEUE    THE    HEART    IS   NOT.  9 

all  the  greenness  here  was  in  the  little  place  of  graves — 
oh  !  how  lonely,  how  desolate  it  looked  ! 

She  had  taken  her  books  from  the  place  where  she  kept 
them.  She  opened  them  again,  and  tried  to  fix  her 
thoughts  upon  their  pages.  But  the  pages  were  blank 
before  her  eyes.  She  had  brought  out  another  book  with 
these,  the  volume  of  poems  David  gave  her.  Aloud  she 
repeated  those  which  he  had  read  for  her.  For  the  rest 
she  did  not  care.  And  thus  the  afternoon  passed  away, 
and  no  visit  was  made  to  the  Mill. 

Mr.  Leighton  learned  that  she  had  arrived  that  day. 
He  saw  the  carriage  as  it  passed  up  from  the  cabin  along 
the  road  to  St.  John's.  And  all  that  afternoon  he  waited 
impatiently  for  Susan  to  come  and  report  herself  to  him  ; 
but  at  night  he  smiled  at  his  surprise  anjl  impatience, 
and  repeated  before  he  slept  some  one  among  the  many 
articles  of  his  faith  concerning  woman. 

At  night  old  Walter  returned  home.  Susan  went  down 
and  met  him  at  the  water's  edge.  Here  was  a  listener 
to  whom  she  might  talk  and  not  fear,  of  the  three  days 
of  grace  and  glory  she  had  spent  away  from  him.  He 
would  ask  her  no  searching  questions,  and  would  very 
likely  fall  asleep  before  she  was  half  through  the  won- 
drous story.  To  him  Susan  talked  till  dark,  and  by  that 
time  both  had  taken  supper,  and  both  were  ready  for 
sleep.  • 

III. 

BUT  at  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning  Susan  went  up  to 
the  Mill. 

Mr.  Leighton  saw  her  as  she  came.  He  stood  and 
watched  her  from  the  round  window  of  his  tower.  Susan 
saw  him — perhaps  he  was  looking  for  her  and  expecting 
her.  Half  in  doubt  she  went  slowly  on ;  and  when  she 

1* 


10  GETTING    ALONG. 

arrived  at  the  mill-door  and  the  stair-case,  she  stood  there 
irresolute.  But  he  had  no  such  design  as  to  descend  and 
meet  her — she  listened,  but  there  came  no  sound  of  his 
footfall. 

Nay,  even  when  she  went  up  the  stairs,  and  knocked  at 
his  door,  he  kept  her  waiting  longer  than  a  moment — long 
enough  for  her  to  wonder  why,  after  she  had  filled  her 
father's  pipe  for  him,  and  brushed  his  best  clothes,  and 
spread  them  out  on  his  bed  for  him  when  he  should  be 
ready  to  dress  for  Sunday,  why,  after  she  had  told  him 
that  she  would  go  up  if  she  might  to  see  Mr.  Leighton, 
and  he  had  said,  "  GrO,"  why  she  went  and  changed  her 
dress,  and  boots,  and  put  on  that  new  bonnet.  It  was 
these  fine  things  that  so  much  confused  her — that  coarse, 
black  straw  bonnet,  and  decent  muslin  dress !  why  the 
Queen  of  Sheba,  when  she  went  to  visit  Solomon,  was  not 
more  thoroughly  aware  of  all  her  grand  apparelling  than 
our  poor  Susan. 

He  at  length  did  open  the  door,  and  the  magnificent 
apparition  did  not  attempt  to  speak ;  she  merely  held  up       . 
her  books  before  him. 

"  Well !  well !  my  dear  !" 

So  he  greeted  her — and  taking  her  books  out  of  her 
hands,  he  crossed  the  room  and  deposited  them  on  the 
table ;  then  returning,  took  up  his  cap. 

"  I  have  missed  you.  See^  Susan,  was  there  ever  worse 
confusion  ?  No !  no  !  I  'm  not  going  to  let  you  in  here. 
It  is  not  a  fit  place  for  you  on  account  of  the  dust !" 

He  would  never  have  thought  of  that,  said  Susan  to 
herself,  if  I  had  not  been  so  foolish  as  to  come  up  dressed 
iu  this  style. 

"  We  will  go  to  the  beach  and  enjoy  the  breeze,"  con- 
tinued he.  "  Have  you  really  a  lesson  to  recite  ?" 

The  idea  seemed  to  please  him,  and  Susan  perceiving 


THE    QUESTION    REPEATED.  11 

that,  began  to  feel  a  little  less  uncomfortable  in  her  gar- 
ments of  civilization. 

"  Are  you  glad  to  get  back  home  again  ?"  asked  he,  as 
they  went  down  the  stairs. 

What  should  she  say,  if  not  yes  to  that  ? 

Actually  at  the  moment  she  was  glad,  because  the  be- 
lief seemed  to  give  him  satisfaction. 

He  had,  doubtless,  been  lonely  during  her  absence — 
she  said — he  must  have  been.  She  argued  concerning 
him  as  if  solitude  were  not  his  main  object  in  coming  to 
this  barren  and  waste  place. 

"  But,  child,  are  you  not  going  to  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  life  now  ?" 

That  was  his  first  question  as  they  walked  together 
along  the  beach  in  the  sunshine. 

Once  or  twice,  as  we  know,  during  the  past  days, 
Susan  had  looked  upon  herself  as  admirably  prepared  to 
answer  a  question  like  that — should  he  ask  it  again  she 
should  find  no  difficulty  in  replying.  Had  he  asked  it, 
as  Mr.  Falcon  did,  while  she  was  amidst  the  excitements 
of  the  city's  sounds  and  shows,  she  had  found  no  more 
difficulty  in  answering  the  one  man,  than  the  other ;  but 
here — she  knew  nothing,  she  could  say  nothing.  Nothing 
to  the  purpose  at  least ;  speak  she  did,  but  with  more 
despair  even  than  she  felt  at  his  first  asking  when  she 
came  back  from  Harlem  ;  she  said  : 

"  What  do  I  know  of  it,  Mr.  Leighton  ?" 

I'rue,  indeed,  what  did  she  know  of  it  ? 

li  But  you  will  tell  me,  at  least,  what  you  have  been 
doing  ?" 

She  made  but  a  confused  story  -of  it — but  for  the 
answers  his  questions  themselves  afforded  her,  it  had 
been  still  worse. 

"  It  is  beautiful,"  said  he  more  than  once,  with  a  sad 


12  GETTING   ALONG. 

earnestness,  sufficiently  convincing ;  "  it,"  whatever  that 
might  signify,  must  be  beautiful. 

"  But  then,"  said  he  gravely,  "  if  you  like  those  things, 
and  companionship  so  much,  this  monotonous  quiet  will 
be  past  endurance." 

He  had  a  cordial  response  to  that  suggestion  iu  Susan's 
silence. 

She  must  needs  betray  herself  to  the  last  degree,  how- 
ever, when  he  said : 

"  But  you  can  escape  from  it,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  How,  Mr.  Leighton  ?"  she  asked  too  quickly,  too 
eagerly. 

"  Get  married  !"  he  responded  dryly. 

Was  there  no  saint  or  angel  near  her  to  help  her,  that 
she  should  "  grow  scarlet  and  grow  pale,"  and  look  away, 
and  seek^to  hide  her  face  from  the  man  who  was  reading 
every  page  of  her  heart,  every  sentence  of  it,  as  a  man  may 
read  a  child's  book  of  fables,  all  whose  meaning  he  compre- 
hends, while  the  poor  infant  sees  only  the  pretty  pictures, 
and  the  curious  print  h 

"  That  is  the  way  girls  do,  you  know.  They  are  tired 
of  living  at  home.  No  great  wonder — they  are  tired  of 
old  things,  old  people  as  well,  and  long  for  new — or  else 
they  are  poor,  and  afraid  of  the  future  ;  and  everybody 
gets  married,  you  know,  (ft 's  a  sort  of  disgrace  not  to 
be  married.  It  is  the  way  of  the  world,  and  you  are  not 
going  to  set  up  yourself  in  opposition  to  that,  are  you, 
Susan  ?" 

So  !  he  had  discovered  the  Chough t  hidden  deep  in 
her  heart,  at  which,  since  she  first  understood  it,  she  had 
hardly  dared  look  again.  But  to  have  it  dragged  into  a 
light  like  this  !  There  was  nothing  for  her  to  say.  Her 
secret  thought  was  hers  no  longer.  And  he"  continued, 
with  a  cold,  firm,  unpitying  voice  : 

"  David  Baldwin,  I  should  judge,   is  a  fine  fellow  ! 


THE    DIFFERENCE    IN    PATHS.  13 

What  do  you  think  of  him?  .  .  .  What  do  vm  know 
about  life  ?  .  .  .  a  good  deal  I  should  say.  You  are 
like  poor  Eve  driven  from  Paradise,  with  a  knowledge 
of  good  and  evil  that  is,  to  say  the  least,  rather  astound- 
ing. You  know  quite  enough  about  life  for  one  of  your 
years,  I  should  say.  And  here  you  are,  actually  envying 
Miss  Baldwin  her  place  !  Be  content.  Do  you  know 
yourself  so  little  as  to  suppose  that  you  could  go  dawd- 
ling through  life  in  a  round  of  gaudy,  tawdry  pleasures  ? 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  Icarus  ?  If  you  are  willing  to  fly 
on  waxen  wings  .  .  .  why — "  the  notion  seemed  to  him 
too  absurd  to  carry  out  into  further  speech. 

Here  he  had  been  comparing  that  divinely-beautiful 
life  to  a  prison  life  ;  that  life  which  was  perfect  liberty  to 
perfect  folly  !  This,  as  he  meant  it  should,  stirred  the 
child  up  to  answer ;  she  had  no  wish  to  fly,  she  said. 
Only  there  was  a  difference  in  paths. 

"  Fifteen  years,"  he  answered,  ;c  as  good  as  thrown 
away.  Nothing  come  of  them.  I  will  not  believe  that ! 
It  is  not  yourself,  it  is  something  else  less  true  and  good 
that  has  the  heart-ache  on  account  of  other  people's 
trumpery.  It  is  not  you  who  are  crying  for  velvets  and 
satins,  good  dinners,  and  flattery  and  lovers.  It  is  quite 
another  person.  You,  in  reality,  scorn  all  these  things. 
That 's  the  reason  you  are  unhappy  ;  because  this  some- 
thing, which  is  not  you,  is  presuming  to  torment  you 
with  such  foolish,  tiresome  reflections  .  .  .  Because  you 
certainly  know  that  your  position  is  one  of  ten  thousand. 
You  are  not  really  going  to  be  so  foolish  as  to  slight  or 
misconstrue  your  privileges  .  .  .  No  doubt  you  can  do 
so  if  you  have  set  your  heart  that  way,  and  you  will  find 
plenty  of  company  on  that  road.  It  is  all  true,  as  John 
Milton  said,  '  There  be  delights,  there  be  recreations,  and 
jolly  pastimes  that  will  fetch  the  day  about  from  sun  to 
sun,  and  rock  the  tedious  year  as  in  a  delightful  dream,' 


14  GETTING    ALONG. 

but  was  it  for  these  things,  think  you,  that  you  were  born  ? 
(\7ere  you  carried  through  infancy,  guarded  through 
childhood,  are  you  growing  up  into  womanhood,  for  the 
amusement  you  may  getj}  for  sports  and  eating  ?" 

Leighton's  eyes  bent  upon  Susan.  She  stood  trem- 
bling— she  said  not  a  word.  She  was  afraid  of  him,  but 
more  afraid  of  herself.  And  he,  perceiving  this,  made 
good  his  opportunity. 

"  I  claim  you  for  other  purposes — for  better  things." 

"  What  things  ?"  said  a  low,  faint  voice. 

"  The  service  of  Truth.     Come  up  above  the  crowd." 

He  paused  now  for  her  answer.  It  burst  passionately 
from  her. 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  but  Nep  !  even  a  dog  !  but  to  be  alone 
as  I  am !" 

With  this  flash  the  cloud  closed  again,  and  became 
dark  as  before. 

"  Alone !"  Leighton  slowly  repeated  the  word,  and 
his  voice  changed ;  so  changed,  that  the  commotion  in 
the  child's  heart  was  stilled,  hearing  it. 

"  Alone.  That  is  a  word  whose  meaning  you  do  not 
know.  Speak  it  not — think  it  not.  You  are  not  alone. 
You  cannot  be.  Heaven  and  earth  are  full  of  friends 
for  you.  Is  not  your  eye  single  ?  can  you  not  see  the 
angels  all  around  you?" 

"  No,"  said  Susan,  :'  it 's  not  true,  Mr.  Leighton.  I 
have  no  one.  I  can't  cheat  myself,  and  think  I  have. 
Where  would  be  the  sense  if  I  could  ?" 

"  Let  alone  the  sense.  Common  sense  is  mischievous 
and  time-serving.  You  are  but  a  child.  There  are  some 
things  in  the  world  beside  what  you  have  seen  within  a 
day  or  two.  The  reason  why  you  are  unhappy  is,  that 
you  have  nothing  to  engage  your  attention.  I  mean, 
none  of  those  things  that  absorb  the  attention  of  girls  of 
your  age.  You  are  where  you  are ;  so,  of  course,  that 


SALT    WATER.  15 

cannot  be  helped.  You  must  make  the  best  of  things  as 
they  are.  You  have  wakened  a  little  too  suddenly — you 
are  somewhat  confused."  Mr.  Leighton  spoke  cheer- 
fully ;  but  it  was  a  different  sort  of  cheerfulness  from 
that  which  Mr.  Falcon  diffused  around  him,  wheresoever 
he  went,  like  an  atmosphere.  There  was  more  than  a 
drop  of  bitterness  in  it. 

"  Your  eyes,"  said  he,  "are  yet  too  weak  for  the  broad 
light.  It  hurts  them,  as  it  does  the  eyes  of  the  un- 
fledged bird.  The  old  familiar  things  which  should  be 
so  precious  to  you,  look  strange,  small,  quaint,  mean. 
You  would  sell  them  cheaply.  You  are  disposed  to 
underrate  them.  Behold  that  mighty  and  restless  ele- 
ment before  you,  teeming  with  wonders,  exhaustless  in 
capacity  and  riches — this  shining  beach — these  innumer- 
able grains  of  sand  !  Can  you  discern  these  things  ? 
Do  you  see  them  ?  Do  you  know  how  many  secret  doors 
are  here,  which  some  eye  must  yet  detect,  and  some  hand 
certainly  open  ?  Have  you  nothing  to  do  with  these  mys- 
teries and  discoveries?  A  little  way  from  here  is  a  large, 
showy  house,  that  any  one  can  see  and  understand — a 
clown  or  an  idiot,  just  as  well  as  you ;  it  is  full  of  splen- 
did decorations,  and  that  is  the  house  for  my  little  Susan  ! 
Why,  what  can  my  little  Susan  be  thinking  of?  You 
have  not  burrowed  in  the  earth  so  long  as  to  have  be- 
come blind  as  a  bat.  You  must  not  play  at  cheating 
yourself — it  is  dangerous  sport.  You  are  not  to  dream 
of  the  delights  of  sloth.  Did  you  ever  dream  of  the 
mirage  of  the  desert,  how  it  lures,  and  misleads,  and  dis- 
appoints the  thirsty  traveller  ?  There  are  living  foun- 
tains in  your  way.  Be  wise,  and  drink  of  them,  Susan." 

"  Saltwater  !"  exclaimed  Susan,  "and  I  hate  it." 

"  You  still  look  back  with  longing — " 

"  Yes,  with  longing.  It  is  the  truth.  I  will  go  home, 
Mr.  Leighton.  I  shall  only  vex  you,  if  I  stay.  I  am 


16  GETTING    ALONG. 

too  foolish  for  you  to  talk  with.  You  are  laughing  at 
me ;  but  I  have  told  you  the  truth.  I  would  be  glad  to 
be  rid  of  myself,  but  I  cannot.  I  will  rid  you  of  it, 
though." 

"  Stay  !"  The  voice  was  so  authoritative  and  so  calm, 
that  Susan  could  not  resist  it.  "  I  know  you  better  than 
you  know  yourself,"  he  continued.  "  I  understand  you 
better.  If  you  go  away,  it  will  sometime  be  a  bitter 
grief  for  you  to  think  of.  Do  not  disappoint  me  .  .  . 
Yet  I  will  not  compel  you.  Go,  if  you  will  not  stay." 

Susan  went  back,  and  took  her  former  place  among 
the  rocks  beside  him. 

"  If  you  know,  tell  me,''  she  said. 

"  You  are  like  neither  Mary  nor  Minerva,"  said  he. 
"  You  are  not  wise,  and  you  are  not  meek  and  lowly. 
But  you  are  less  unlike  either  of  these  prototypes  than 
the  most  of  women,  who  squander  life,  and  all  its  precious 
things,  as  if  they  were  put  here  for  no  other  earthly  pur- 
pose. You  have  fallen  into  a  terrible  error.  / 1  will  tell 
you,  for  you  should  know,  how  girls  are  trained  in  that 
system  of  things  which  has  somehow  attracted  your  curi- 
ous admiration.  You  shall  see  what  a  phosphorescent 
light  it  is  that  has  gleamed  out  of  a  rotten  state  of 
things,  to  cheat  you,  poor  little  one.  They  are,  the  un- 
fortunate creatures,  sent  to  school — sl;ut  up  in  hot  houses 
while  they  are  infants,  that  they  may  be  put  of  the  way. 
And  they  continue  at  school  when  they  are  older,  be- 
cause they  must  be  educated.  What  they  get  is  called 
education.  They  study  everything  in  the  course  of  ton 
or  twelve  years — they  get  a  shadow  of  all  sorts  of  sciences 
that  ever  were  heard  of — and  are  finally  turned  out  on 
the  world  '  finished,'  brimfull  of  irreverence,  and  an  inso- 
lent belief  in  their  qualifications  to  take  the  conduct  of 
their  life  into  their  own  hands.  Then  they  get  married, 
on  account  of  a  good  voice  for  singing,  or  a  pretty  face, 


WHAT    SHALL    DELIVER    YOU  ?  17 

or  the  fortune  they  may  have  from  their  honest1,  hard- 
working father,  or  some  such  thing  ;(_but  not  more  than 
one  woman  out  of  ten  thousand  for  a  pure,  good  love's 
sake.^)  The  next  thing  you~~hear  of  the  ninety-nine  hun- 
dred, they  are  sending  another  race  of  unfortunate  little 
children  into  the  hot-houses  which  did  such  rare  work 
for  their  fathers  and  mothers.  If  you  knew  more  of  such 
things,  you  would  believe  what  I  say,  that,  among  the 
women  brought  up  after  this  fashion,  some  of  them  are 
as  badly  off  in  one  respect  as  inebriates.  They  hajtpen 
to  be  immortal  beings,  and  their  dissatisfaction  with  the 
things  they  have  drawn  into  their  souls  to  furnish  it 
must  show  itself — they  cannot  get  rid  of  their  craving  for 
something  better.  They  sometimes  find  out  precisely 
what  it  is  they  want;  but,  in  one  case  of  ten  thousand, 
they  have  not  even  then  the  needful  courage  or  strength 
to  apply  the  remedy.  This  is  the  life,  of  fine  show  and 
real  misery,  that  you  would  choose.  This  is  what  you 
covet.  You !  oh,  woman !  child  !  what  shall  deliver 
you  ?  are  you  not  a  whit  better  than  these  ?  Is  it 
actually  nothing  that  you  have  grown  up  here  in  solitude, 
shielded  by  these  rocks  from  the  fortune  that  has  at  last 
discovered  how  to  tempt  you,  whose  worthless  gifts  you 
covet?)' 

Susan  thought  of  Isidore,  and  recalled  what  she  had 
heard  of  Stella  Gammon.  Cold  and  unbelieving,  she 
stood  reflecting  on  his  words. 

"  I  am  no  better  off  than  the  others." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Leighton.  His  voice  was  cold — 
she  must  explain  herself,  and  she  hastened  to  do  it. 

"  These  rocks  are  not  as  beautiful  as  gardens  full  of 
flowers,  and  groves  of  trees.  I  do  not  think  I  am  so 
very  rich." 

'•  Perhaps  not,"  quietly  responded  the  teacher  of  this 
refractory  pupil.  The  poor  hope  that  had  taken  up  its 


18  GETTING   ALONG. 

sling  wherewith  to  break  the  gigantic  theory  of  Leigh- 
ton,  stood  with  nerveless  purpose.  He  bent  now  to 
expostulate. 

"  But  make  the  best  use  of  what  riches  you  have. 
Why,  because  you  have  only  your  own  store,  should  you 
despise  it  ?  That  is  all  that  any  person  has.  It  is  not 
position,  nor  circumstance,  (Jeast  of  all  is -it  gold  or 
silver  Jit  is  the  man  who  rules  the  world,  and  appoints 
destiny.  An  infant  cannot  manage  a  sword  ;  all  warriors 
were  once  helpless,  in  their  infancy.  Make  the  best  use 
of  what  good  you  have.  I  do  not  say  it  is  the  best 
good  in  the  world ;  but  I  say  it  is  the  best  for  you.  It  is 
quite  as  much  as  you  know  what  to  do  with,  apparently. 
I  should  like  you  once  to  see  that  there  is  not  the  pro- 
foundest  wisdom  in  a  body's  throwing  himself  against  a 
wall  and  dashing  his  brains  out  in  the  hope  of  forcing 
his  way  through  it.  You  covet  those  Baldwin  advan- 
tages. Now  listen  to  me.  Ask  yourself  why  you  covet 
them,  and  see  if  you  can  think  of  an  answer  that  you  can 
give  me  without  shame.  You  are  quite  as  well  off  as 
any  soul  in  that  house.  Your  means  are  few  and  cheap ; 
theirs  elaborate,  costly.  It  is  quite  worth  your  while  to 
make  an  experiment.  I  wish  I  could  have  prevented 
your  envy  of  Miss  Isidore.  I  wish  you  had  proved  your- 
self incapable  of  that.  I  wish  I  could  have  kept  you 
from  falling  in  love  with  David.>  But  perhaps  it  is  well 
that  you  should  have  the  experience,  since  you  are  as 
you  are.'' 

The  Theory  of  the  man  was  evidently  pursuing  the  Hope 
with  a  sardonic  leer.  Leighton's  intellect  was  in  search 
of  phenomena.  No  gentle  emotion  bade  him  spare  the 
child. 

To  Susan,  trembling,  seeking  to  hide  her  glowing  face, 
and  the  tears  that  rolled  hotly  down  her  cheeks/  this  was 
terrible.  It  was  showing  her  to  herself  with  a  sneer. 


WHOSE    WAS    T1IE    VICTORY.  19 

It  was  compelling  a  child  to  be  a  woman ;  a  lonely- 
hearted,  dreaming  child,  to  become  a  solitary,  scornful, 
doubting  woman.  For,  in  laying  bare  the  secret  of  her 
heart,  he  compelled  her  to  some  sort  of  action — she 
could  not  calmly  endure  that  dissection  of  his  sharp, 
pitiless  eyes.  She  must  defy  or  yield  to  him.  Persist 
in  disbelieving  him,  or  submit  to  his  guidance. 

She  could  not  command  words  expressive  of  rapture  or 
thanksgiving  wherewith  to  reply.  Her  heart  had  been 
wounded  ;  it  ached  and  bled,  for  life  was  there.  It  was 
no  doubt  a  healthful  operation,  this  blood-letting;  but 
not  the  most  delightsome.  It  was  a  circumcision  of 
soul  for  which  she  was  not  prepared.  It  was  recognition, 
after  some  sort,  but  not  such  as  she  could  appreciate. 
He  called  on  her  to  crucify  imagination — he  was  for 
hurling  into  instant  darkness  all  the  fair  fictions  in  which 
she  had  delighted. 

"  May  I  go  and  get  my  book?"  she  said  at  length. 

Leighton  bowed,  and  Susan  started  off  towards  the  mill. 

"  I  will  come  and  recite  to-morrow,"  said  she,  turning 
back,  after  she  had  gone  on  alone  a  few  paces. 

Again  he  bowed,  and  she  went  on,  alone. 


IV. 

SUSAN  went  home.  She  returned  into  her  chamber. 
The  night  passed  away  ;  the  morning  broke.  ''Day  found 
her  where  the  night  had  left  her — faint  with  watching  the 
hopes  that  had  been  slain. 

Yet,  early  in  the  day,  she  was  again  in  the  topmost 
room  in  the  round  tower,  reciting  to  her  tutor.  Before 
him  she  stood ;  not  in  yesterday's  agitation,  but  with  com- 
posure. Unto  him  were  known  all  her  thoughts.  Gone 
was  her  shrinking  dread.  He  should  teach  her  what  to 


20  GETTING    ALONG. 

do  with  all  those  thoughts — he  had  searched  her  mind 
and  heart — he  should  pay  a  price  for  that  knowledge. 
This,  in  substance,  if  not  in  form,  was  the  conclusion  at 
which  Susan  had  arrived  ;  the  conclusion  that  encouraged 
her  to  go  up  to  her  recitation,  that  fortified  her  to 
endure  his  scrutiny. 

When  he  gave  back  the  books  to  her.  the  recitation 
being  over,  he  took  Susan's  hand,  as  she  received  the 
book,  in  his,%nd  looked  into  her  face.  Not  with  the 
look  of  yesterday ;  but  with  less  severity.  He  had  re- 
lented somewhat.  Yet,  she  inquired  still  in  vain  for 
anything  like  pity  there.  He  did  not  think  she  stood  in 
need  of  pit}'.  The  fact  that  she  had  come  up  to  this 
recitation,  that  she  had  thus  recited,  proved  to  him  that 
whatever  else  she  might  need,  his  pity  would  not  be 
demanded. 

il  You  thought  me  cruel  yesterday/'  said  he;  "  do  you 
still  ?" 

Susan  made  no  answer.  He  dropped  her  hand ;  it  did 
not  fall  nerveless  to  her  side,  but  helped  its  mate  in  hold- 
ing the  heavy  books.  This  movement  did  not  escape  Mr. 
Leighton.  With  a  rapid,  perplexed  motion,  he  passed 
his  hand  across  his  forehead. 

"  I  intended  kindly,"  he  said.  "  You  are  not  still 
thinking  that  you  are  unhappy,  are  you,  Su.sm  V" 

She  was  not  sufficiently  in  doubt  to  tliink  about  it — 
she  knew.  He  read  that  in  her  ingenuous  face. 

"  Whatever  you  may  think,"  said  he,  again,  "  be  assured 
of  this,  you  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  unhappy.  You 
are  wide  awake.  Why  give  yourself  over  to  the  influence 
of  nightmare  ?  Oh  !  living  soul,  take  care  !  You  are 
trifling  terribly." 

So  caught  and  wrapped  was  she  in  the  Same  of  glance 
and  utterance,  that  she  had  no  strength  for  speech,  no 
word  to  say. 


TO-DAY    AND    YESTERDAY.  21 

"  I  have  driven  it  out  of  your  head,  I  see,"  he  said,  in 
a  softened  tone.  "  Something  you  were  going  to  say,  what 
is  it?" 

Somewhat  hurried  was  the  question  she  asked : 

"  Am  I  what  I  was  when  you  found  me  here,  Mr. 
Leighton?  tell  me  truly." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  sat  gazing  at  the  child.  Under 
the  survey  she  became  impatient. 

"  Truly— tell  me  truly." 

"  You  have  had  some  royal  guests  to  entertain  since 
then,"  said  he.  "  There  have  been  angels  at  your  tent- 
door,  and  you  have  not,  I  believe,  inhospitably  turned 
them  away.  You  know,  perhaps  better  than  I,  if  they 
have  done  any  good  thing  for  you  in  turn.  You  are  older 
by  a  few  weeks  as  we  count  time.  Yes — and  changed 
somewhat,  but  not  altogether  from  the  original  I  found. 
But  you  have  taken  a  fancy  to  ornament,  which  I  should 
not  care  to  see  cultivated.  Savage  women,  do  you  know 
it  ?  are  fond  of  beads  and  ornaments  of  tin  and  pewter, 
and  gay  ribbons^ 

"  Am  I  a  savage  woman  ?" 

"  I  apprehend  that  you  are  in  quite  as  ,  much  danger 
on  account  of  the  fire-water  as  the  gewgaws." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Leighton." 

"  You  are  trying  to  persuade  yourself  that  I  surely 
cannot  mean  that  your  head  and  heart  are  having  a  con- 
flict— whereas  that  is  exactly  my  idea.  Yesterday,  but 
not  to-day,  it  surely  cannot  be  true  of  you  to-day,  you 
were  thinking  of  nothing  but  the  people  at  St.  John's, 
and  of  all  their  glory.  Had  the  opportunity  been  yours, 
you  would  have  put  on  Miss  Isidore's  chains,  and  for  a 
little  while  you  would  have  carried  them  as  a  charm. 
But  the  gilt  would  have  worn  off,  the  gold  become  dim. 
You  would  have  tried  to  break  the  chains.  How  you 
would  hnte  the  slight  but  powerful,  the  petty  shining  chain 


22  GETTING    ALONG. 

that  bound  you  down  to  custom,  and  compelled  you  to 
feign  worship  of  sham !  You  are  no  more  fit  to  pass  into 
that  sphere,  and  walk  its  round,  than  Hercules  was  fit  for 
spinning.  The  'ghost  of  a  linen  decency'  would  never 
terrify  you  into  the  attitude  of  an  impostor.  As  to  the 
fire-water  temptation,  you  have  not  shown  in  your  recita- 
tion to-day  that  you  are  proof  against  it.  If  I  allowed 
you  to  have  your  own  way,  you  would  destroy  yourself — 
my  books  would  be  your  sepulchre.  The  sun  wants  you 
out  of  doors.  Dost  thou  know  thyself,  oh  thou  of  little 
faith  ?" 

"  I  thought  I  did." 

"  No  doubt — so  does  a  butterfly  when  it  hangs  wrapped 
in  its  chrysalis.  You  know  nothing:  you  should_be  hap- 
py on  account  of  that.  You  are  in  great  danger  of  taking 
your  own  standard  for  that  of  every  other  person.  Keep 
off  that  treadmill." 

Still  gentler  was  his  voice,  sadder  his  countenance,  as 
he  continued  after  a  brief  pause :  "  Do  you  remember  the 
story  of  Pygmalion  ?  No  woman  in  the  world  whom  he 
could  love.  Not  one  that  answered  to  the  pure,  brave 
spirit  of  which  he  dreamed ;  for  whom  he  looked  with  a 
hope  and  longing — that  was  ever  disappointed — among  the 
women  of  the  world.  How  he  brought  out  from  the  depths 
of  his  own  soul  an  idea  that  he  clothed  in  form  so  pure 
that  it  was  worthy  of  his  reverence — so  beautiful  that  it 
evoked  the  love  he  had  longed  to  lavish  on  some  human 
heart.  And  how  the  kind  goddess,  pitying  the  poor  es- 
tate of  the  image-maker,  gave  his  work  the  '  breath  of 
life.'  Do  you  remember?" 

"  I  remember,  Mr.  Leighton. 

"  And  what  of  it — you  say.  ^'Well  I  know  what  it  is 
that  the  young  love.  Repose  is  death  to  them.  Activity 
wins  them  to  friendship,  binds  them  to  love.  Well  I  know, 
resolution,  repose,  achievements  .  .  .  could  they  but  dis- 


THE    STONE    UNSEALED.  23 

cern  the  issue  towards  which  these  alluring  incitements 
tend !  .  .  .  Strife  .  .  .  pursuit  .  .  .  victory !  the  heart 
of  youth  springs  forward  eagerly  at  the  mention  of  these 
words  .  .  . You  start  in  life  with  precious  recollec- 
tions for  guardians  ...  I  came  here  to  labor,  to  find 
rest  and  strength — I  found  something  beside  these  .  .  . 
A  stone  in  which  a  divine  life  was  hidden.  I  saw  and 
understood  it — and  loved  it.  I  thought  it  blessed  because 
it  was  so  bound  and  sealed.  I  would  not  have  brought  it 
into  a  more  common  human  life — I  should  not  have  de- 
sired that  it  might  in  this  way  be  given  to  itself.  I  saw 
tenderness,  truth,  and  strength  in  the  hidden  life  .  .  . 
Unsolicited  the  stone  is  touched,  the  life  awakens  to  a 
confused  perception  of  itself.  It  perceives,  though  it  does 
not  understand  its  vitality.  It  knows  not  what  to  do 
with  such  an  abundance — I  love  it  not  the  less  for  this, 
but  the  more — and  I  am  troubled  for  it  the  more.  Do 
you  know  why  I  love  the  life  ?  Because  it  is  a  true 
one.  Look  things  in  the  face,  Susan.  See  them  as 
they  are.  Never,  never  throw  the  mantle  of  your  char- 
ities over  any  deformity  of  truth  that  you  may  thereby 
respect  and  love  it.  There  are  high  and  great  prin- 
ciples always  waiting  for  your  love  .  .  .  There  are 
tender,  true,  brave  souls — "  again,  as  in  the  last  few 
minutes  he  had  done  frequently,  he  paused — he  seemed 
to  be  saying  these  things  as  if  in  spite  of  himself. 
The  truth  within  him  was  greater  than  the  man,  she 
would  compel  him  to  lend  her  his  voice ;  "  men  and  wo- 
men on  this  earth,  wheat  growing  with  the  tares  in  the 
same  wide  field.  When  you  seek,  you  will  no  doubt  find 
them.  Love  them.  You  will  love  them  all  the  more,  I 
think,  if  they  are  receiving  the  jeers  of  the  faithless  and 
wicked.  Join  hands  with  them,  and  strive,  as  they  are 
striving,  to  achieve  in  yourself  and  in  others  a  true  life. 
I  hope  for  you  none  the  less  that  you  have  been  dream- 


GETTING    ALONG. 

ing.  You  but  fell  into  the  prevailing  error,  and  showed 
the  fearful  contagion  of  corrupt  taste.  But  is  it  not  out 
of  reason  that  you  should  choose  tinsel  in  place  of  gold  ? 
— admire  the  raiment  rather  than  the  life  ?  I  hope  for 
you  none  the  less  that  in  your  youth  you  pine  for  love. 
You  need  not  pine — for  the  loving  there  's  love  every- 
where. Continue  to  believe  all  the  blessed  things  that 
are  said  of  truth,  and  purity,  and  beauty ;  for  all  things 
are  possible  with  these.  Dream  on — dream  on,  Susan  ; 
but  dream  wisely.  Dream  that  the  reverent  and  heroic 
soul  will  arrive  at  its  milleiiium  yet — that  there  will  yet 
be  a  rising  in  the  valley  of  dry  bones.  Remember  that 
I  promised  it,  if  ever  you  feel  inclined  to  doubt  about  it. 
Then,  if  your  hand  has  become  palsied,  it  will  feel  the 
life-blood  quickening  and  nerving  it  again.  If  your  faith 
is  dead,  it  will  come  to  life  again.  Remember  the  dead 
...  all  hail  to  you  of  the  livingJM 

He  kissed  her  on  her  forehead. 

"  When  I  am  gone,  little  one,"  he  said,  "  remember 
these  words ;  and  never  forget  your  mother.  Promise 
me.  Be  like  her." 

Susan  promised  him;  looking  out 'on  the  great  ocean, 
beholding  in  the  distance  a  ship  going  out  to  sea,  she 
promised. 

Large  drops  of  rain,  from  clouds  whose  gathering  she 
had  not  observed,  dashed  against  the  window ;  warned 
by  this  token  of  storm,  Susan  arose  to  go. 

':  Indeed  it  is  time  that  I  should  return  to  my  work," 
said  Mr.  Leighton,  turning  to  his  desk. 

Slowly  Susan  moved  towards  the  door,  went  out,  and 
descended.  But  when  she  had  reached  the  outer  door 
of  the  mill,  she  remembered  her  books,  and  went  back  for 
them.  Mr.  Leighton  did  not  hear  her  coming;  but  when 
she  stood  again  upon  the  threshold,  he  looked  up  sudden- 


THE    VEIL    LIFTKD.  25 

ly.  She  had  broken  upon  the  solitude  of  a  man  in  tears. 
She  got  her  books,  and  went  out  without  speaking — he 
did  not  call  her  back. 


V. 

MR.  LEIGHTON  was  undoubtedly  a  very  wise  man. 
Susan  Dillon  did  not  question  the  wonders  of  his  wisdom. 
She  did  her  best  to  follow  after  his  counsel — to  under- 
stand it  in  the  first  place,  and  then  to  obey  it.  But  to 
all  the  influence  of  his  teaching  a  counter  influence  was 
steadily  opposing  itself. 

There  was  for  her  thought  a  new  epoch,  beginning  with 
that  drive  to  St.  John's,  when  David  Baldwin  had  doffed 
the  magnificence  of  the  accomplished  man  of  the  world, 
to  assume  the  unpretending  manner  of  the  kind  friend. 
So  went  her  apprehension. 

Inhabitants  of  volcanic  regions  date  from  the  last 
eruption ;  dwellers  among  mountains  from  the  last 
"  slide."  Souls  also  from  the  convulsions  which  have 
shaken  them— dawnings  of  light — meteoric  displays  — the 
baptism  of  fire — the  eclipse. 

Mr.  Leighton's  warnings  availed  nothing.  Studiously 
Susan  gave  herself  to  her  tasks.  But  she  found  that 
voice  in  every  line,  that  face  in  every  thought.  /-Love 
tore  asunder  the  raiment  in  which  he  had  wrapped  proph- 
ecy, and  she  saw  within  the  radiant  form — more  beau- 
tiful than  Adonis — and  she  fell  down  and  worshipped. 

It  was  the  love  of  a  child,  though  her  childhood  had 
passed  away.  It  was  not  passion — it  was  something 
holier,  nobler.  She  would  have  died  for  him — could 
have  been  led  on,  step  by  step,  to  even  that  sacrifice, 
had  events  so  guided.  She  would  have  toiled,  have  suf- 
fered for  him ;  but  her  love  did  not  define  itself.  She 

VOL.  II.  2 


26  GETTING   ALONG. 

anticipated  nothing.  She  was  conscious  of  it,  but  not 
greatly  hopeful  for  it — not  hopeful  at  all,  indeed — had 
no  prophecies  for  it.  She  built  up  no  personal  future 
with  that  love  for  the  corner-stone.  It  was  merely  the 
exhaustive,  deep  love  of  a  child^J 

Bear  with  her,  and  wreak  not  the  vengeance  of  a  smil- 
ing scepticism  on  me,  as  a  writer  of  incredibilities,  read- 
er. For  you  also  have  known,  if  you  had  any  childhood 
— into  what  woman's  face  shall  I  look,  expectant  of 
denial  ? — have  also  known  something,  in  less  or  large  de- 
gree, of  this.  £There  is  more  of  idol-worship  than  God- 
worship  in  the  heart  of  youth,  account  for  it  as  you  will, 
by  natural  depravity  of  the  heart,  or  fault  of  education? 
A  fact  it  is ;  nothing  worth  to  the  life  student,  it  is  true, 
if  it  be  not  worth  everything — worth  nothing,  if  not 
worth  everything,  to  those  who  hold,  of  all  on  earth,  the 
most  responsible  of  offices,  the  father  and  the  mother  of 
a  household. 

God,  afar  in  his  heaven,  throned  an  unmeasured  height 
about  the  skies,  was  to  be  loved ;  and  Susan  had  heard 
of  Him,  and  knew  well  the  requirement.  The  Bible,  her 
own  mother's  Bible,  from  which  she  used  to  read  to  her 
children  those  wonder-tales  about  the  patriarchs  and  the 
prophets,  this  Book  was  lying  on  the  table  where  it  had 
lain  for  years,  and  sometimes,  but  not  often,  Susan 
opened  it  and  read  aloud  to  her  father  when  he  had 
leisure  to  listen,  and  was  not  too  much  wearied.  But 
since  the  mother  was  gone,  the  life  seemed  also  to  have 
vanished  from  the  volume — the  light  of  faith  did  not 
shine  brightly  from  her  heart  upon  those  pages  when  the 
light  of  her  love  was  withdrawn.  Because  her  mother's 
reverent  voice  found  once  loving  utterance  for  those 
sacred  stories,  they  had  been,  in  her  lifetime,  full  of  light, 
and  life,  and  beauty.  But  He  whose  name  was  on  the 
volume's  every  page,  was  now  become  to  all  purposes  a 


THE    LOVE    OF    A    CHILD'S    HEART.  27 

dead  god  to  Susan.  She  found  him  no  more  in  His 
book,  than  in  those  ancient  fables  which  she  had  so  often 
read.  He  was  afar  on  His  throne,  governing  His  world, 
He  or  Jove' — or  some  great  Power.  What  had  He  to 
do  with  her,  or  she  with  Him  ? 

Let  no  reverentjspirit  lift  its  eyes  in  amazement  at 
this  portrayal,  as  if  I  were  carelessly  recording  the  ex- 
perience of  an  exceptional  character  to  no  earthly  good 
or  purpose.  I  am  making  mention  of  a  fact  in  human 
experience,  around  which  will  cluster — few  are  the  thought- 
ful sentient  readers  of  whom  this  much  may  not  be  said — 
memories  which  make  the  saddest,  strangest  memories 
of  the  world's  heart. 

The  time  had  come  when  all  the  heathen  gods,  who 
had  long  been  her  nearest  and  best  friends,  and  the  God 
of  all  gods,  must  alike  give  place  for  this  other  whom  she 
had  found  worthy  of  a  throne  and  her  worship  !  .  .  . 
She  found  him  everywhere.  Omnipresence  she  gave 
him  ;  and  omniscience  also,  when  his  eyes  were  upon  her. 

From  the  depths  of  clouds — that  unknown  world 
which  he  inhabited,  for  a  great  mystery  enshrouded  him 
in  that  domain  to  which  he  was  raised  so  high  above 
her — his  eyes  fell  on  her  and  discerned  her  thoughts. 
She  heard  his  voice  in  the  roar  of  waters,  a  mightier 
tone  than  every  other.  The  sunlight  had  his  smile,  the 
darkness  his  composure ;  day  his  brightness — night  his 
glory.  Never  could  she  be  alone  again,  for  he  was  in 
the  world. 

The  adoring  Christian  soul,  the  utmost  development 
of  the  pure,  loving,  human  heart,  will  best  understand, 
because  it  only  can  comprehend  this  fact  of  Susan  Dillon's 
history.  The  soul  that  nowhere  in  life,  or  history,  or 
nature,  can  discover  barrenness  or  darkness,  because  it 
beholds  the  ineffable  Light  filling  all  in  all,  will  be  most 
tender  and  compassionate  of  this  child  who  has  halted 


28  GETTING    ALONG. 

on  the  outermost  verge  of  essential  Being.  He,  seeing 
how  her  soul  is  satisfied  with  the  atom  of  glory  and  joy 
that  has  come  to  her,  will  perceive  and  know  that  the  re- 
sources, which  are  never  exhausted,  must  have  a  better 
good  in  store  for  her,  the  instant  that  she  shall  say,  "  it 
is  not  enough" — "  more  life  and  fuller"  !  He,  calm  in 
his  deep  faith,  will  not  even  pause  or  descend  to  question, 
shall  not  this  deeply-loving  life  '  come  up  higher,'  not 
transferring,  but  developing  its  love,  until  by  human 
steps  it  shall  ascend  and  behold  at  last  in  very  truth  the 
glory  of  the  Father  ?  He  will  not  ask,  for  the  deep 
things  of  a  Christian's  faith  are  simple  facts  of  knowl- 
edge. He  knows,  cannot  avoid  knowing,  Susan  Dillon's 
destiny. 

VI. 

THE  Baldwin  visit  at  Harlem  was  a  vast  theme  for 
Mrs.  Chilton's  contemplation ;  and  not  less  vast  for  her 
son  Horace. 

There  were  dreams  of  "  family  compacts" — of  success 
in  ambitious  enterprises — of  a  new  leadership  in  society — 
in  short,  of  resurrection  from  the  death  of  life  in  Har- 
lem. These  were  dreams  not  to  be  told,  but  to  be 
evolved  after  another  manner. 

From  the  hour  of  that  visit  the  mother  and  the  son 
came  into  new  relations  with  each  other.  They  might 
be  a  longer  or  a  shorter  time,  according  to  their  quickiirss 
of  perception,  in  coming  into  a  clear  understanding  of 
this  unity,  but  the  unity  was  a  fact — they  were  hence- 
forth one  in  their  aim  and  hope. 

The  undisguised  interest  Mr.  Baldwin  took  in  Horace, 
the  cordial  questioning  he  unceremoniously  made  in  re- 
gard to  her  son's  architectural  taste  and  inclination, 
aroused  the  mother's  attention,  awakened  her  interest, 


FAMILY    EXPECTATIONS.  29 

and  resolve.  His  mother's  reception  of  the  guests,  her 
bearing  towards  them,  his  perception  of  her  as  the  mere, 
fine,  high-bred,  fashionable  lady,  (it  was  the  first  time  in 
his  life  that  he  had  seen  her  in  relation  with  people  who 
were  moving  in  the  circles  where  she  once  had  moved,) 
aroused  the  son's  pity,  his  respect.  She  should  be  de- 
livered from  Harlem  and  obscurity — she  should  take  the 
place  for  which  nature  and  culture  had  designed  her. 

With  these  new  thoughts,  bearing  thus  towards  each 
other,  it  was  not  probable  that  words  would  always  be 
found  wanting  to  express  them.  There  were  hints  at  a 
removal  to  St.  John's — long  reflections  on  the  feasibility  jp 
and  propriety  of  the  plan — and  then  discussions  as  to  the 
way  in  which  it  could  best  be  carried  out.  There  were, 
besides,  mutual  hints  that  Leah's  school  must  be  aban- 
doned, and  other  speculations  as  to  the  future.  Mrs. 
Chilton  and  Horace  came,  by  reason  of  the^e  thoughts, 
gradually  into  open  communication  of  them.  Wot  of  them 
in  their  whole  bearing — the  whither  to  which  they  led 
neither  of  them  had  sought  out  in  speculations,  to  the  last 
result ;  but  they  were  more  slow  in  unfolding  their  de- 
sires and  convictions  to  Leah.  Somehow,  whenever  a 
true  life  is  thrown  among  false  ones,  it  must,  though  its 
law  be  kindness,  though  its  course  be  unobtrusive,  so  re- 
buke those  falsities  as.  though  they  perceive  it  not  as  a 
rebuke,  to  make  them  uncomfortable  ;  the  lives,  whatever 
be  their  external  relation,  cannot  in  an  inward  manner 
coalesce^  So  was  it  in  this  family.  This  quiet  continu- 
ance in  well-doing  they  could  not  take  as  evidence  of  stu- 
pid incapacity  to  recognize  the  goods  of  this  world.  Leah 
was,  on  the  contrary,  day  by  day  laboring  for  them.  But, 
she  was  laboring  in  the  faith  of  those  who  remember  that, 
though  you  may  buy  two  of  them  for  a  farthing,  not  a 
sparrow  can  fall  unnoticed  to  the  ground.  And  this  it 
was  that  passed  beyond  their  comprehension,  and  shut 


30  GETTING    ALONG. 

them  up  to  her.  She  never  could  so  knock  at  the  door 
of  their  hearts  that  they  would  open  to  her.  Never  would 
they  so  open  to  her  that  she  could  come  in  and  break  the 
bread  of  life  which  sustained  her  soul  with  them. 

Horace  Chilton  had  never  dreamed  great  dreams,  he 
had  never  formed  vast  projects,  he  had  not — great  has  our 
mistake  been  if  we  have  conveyed  any  such  impression 
heretofore — he  had  not  the  requisite  power  of  conception 
nor  the  needful  energy  of  will.  Though  he  penetrated 
into  the  mazes  of  his  mother's  unspoken  hopes  and  plans 
with  what  he  chose  to  deceive  himself  by  calling  scorn, 
he  nevertheless  reflected  much  upon  the  new  thoughts 
they  gave  him.  For,  though  he  had  not  suspected  it,  his 
ambition  was  an  ambition  that  would  at  any  instant  have 
relinquished  its  aspirations  for  the  assurance  of  worldly 
fortune.  He  knew  not  that  this  was  true  of  himself,  be- 
cause he  could  not  understand  how  very  far  beyond  self, 
thought  of  self  or  hope  of  self,  the  aspiration  of  the  true 
artist  goes.  It  was  this  incapacity  that  had  occasioned 
his  entire  misconception  of  himself  so  long.  What  he 
wanted  was  fame,  not  the  perfections  which  ensure  it.  He 
wanted  fortune,  ease,  luxury,  gay  company,  high  living — 
more.  But  how  could  he  nerve  himself  so  far  as  to  wear 
body  and  brain  to  shreds  in  working  for  these  things  ? 
Had  he  no  faculty  for  speculation  ?  Had  he  not  the  cour- 
age to  risk  time  and  eternity,  I  mean  Life,  (not  blood  and 
bone,  however,)  by  a  leap  for  riches  ?  Horace  Chilton 
had  much  of  grace  and  personal  beauty.  He  had  seen 
his  mother  coming  into  new  relations,  to  him  at  least, 
gracefully  as  a  queen  ;  he  wondered  no  longer  at  her  long 
repining;  he  shared  her  discontent.  How  could  he  ef- 
fect her  deliverance  and  his  own  ?  Was  there  more  than 
one  way  for  a  youth  like  him  ? 

By  degrees,  and  not  by  slow  degrees,  he  came  to  regard 


HE  THAT  RUNS  MAY  READ.  31 

the  chosen  profession,  the  profession  to  which  he  had 
fancied  that  his  genius  had  predestined  him,  in  a  second- 
ary light,  but  as,  possibly,  the  amusement  of  his  future 
years  .  .  .  not  as  the  labor  of  life — the  sacred  altar  for 
the  holiest  sacrifices.  Leah  must  give  up  her  school.  By 
the  effect  produced  on  his  own  mind,  and  on  his  mother's, 
he  understood  how  such  an  occupation,  pursued  by  her, 
would  forever  mar  the  family's  best  interests.  And  he  had 
resolved  upon  a  method  by  which  it  would  be  possible  for 
her  to  suspend  all  labor.  These  were  the  costly  tools  his 
father  gave  him !  a  mine  he  could  not  work — treasure  as 
good  as  buried.  We  have  already  heard  his  first  reflec- 
tions on  this  point. 

Mr.  Baldwin,  during  his  visit,  had  spoken,  or  rather 
had  remotely  alluded — and  Horace  had  since  interpreted 
it  into  plain  speech — so  had  his  mother — to  the  interest 
he  felt  in  the  young  man's  success,  and  had  said  some- 
thing of  a  friend  of  his  who  was  an  engineer  in  St.  John's. 
In  such  close  connection  had  he  spoken  of  these  things, 
that  Horace,  without  hesitation,  had  proceeded  to  build 
his  plans  on  this  foundation ;  which,  we  do  not  assert, 
would  have  been  either  disgraceful  or  marvellous,  had  not 
his  plan  for  the  erection  of  the  superstructure  been  utter- 
ly mendacious. 

From  these  processes  of  argument,  however,  in  the 
brain  of  a  youth,  these  known  and  unknown  processes, 
the  reader  will  be  quite  assured  of  one  thing,  that  Hor- 
ace Chilton,  wherever  he  goes,  will  be  sure  to  get  along 
in  life  beyond  all  peradventure. 

That  Leah  was  prepared  to  join  in  plotting  for  these 
ends,  we  hardly  need  deny.  That  she  was  blind  to  the 
uew  spirit  infused  into  the  house  with  that  visit  from  St. 
John's,  would  argue  far  more  dullness  on  her  part  than  I 
am  willing  to  admit.  That  she  was  quiescently  patient 


32  GETTING    ALONG. 

with  it  all,  that  it  did  not  make  her  heart  sink  in  shame, 
and  rise  in  indignation,  who  will  believe  ? 

Too  pure  to  enter  into,  she  was  sure  to  discern  so 
much  as  this,  that  a  new  element  was  infused  into  the 
family  mind.  She  did  observe,  she  could  not  fail  to 
reason  about,  the  new  unity,  harmony  I  did  not  say,  that 
prevailed  between  Horace  and  their  mother. 

She  was  then  hardly  surprised  when  Horace,  one 
night,  not  long  after  the  momentous  visit,  said  to  her  : 

"  When  does  your  term  end,  Leah  ?" 

"  Next  Wednesday,"  she  told  him. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  You  '11  not  open  it  again  this 
summer,"  said  he,  as  if  that  of  course  were  her  plan,  and 
a  settled  point  in  everybody's  mind. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered. 

"  But  mother  and  I  think  that  you  should  have  a  rest. 
It  will  be  time  enough  for  you  to  take  the  school  again 
in  the  fall,  if  you  are  bent  on  it." 

"  That  would  be  foolish.  I  had  better  keep  on,  than 
have  the  school  broken  up  and  scattered." 

"  Now,  Leah,  don't  be  foolish.  Show  a  little  grati- 
tude ;  but  for  me  you  would  never  have  had  the  school, 
and  I  think  we  have  tormented  mother  long  enough.  Let 
your  rival  have  the  benefit  of  the  youngsters  this  season." 

"  I  had  rather  not." 

"  Why  had  you  rather  not  ?"  asked  Horace  impatiently. 
"  When  you  come  to  the  profit  of  the  thing,  why  it 's 
such  a  mere  trifle  that — that — really  it  is  not  worth 
mentioning." 

Horace  hesitated  saying  this.  He  had  not  quite  for- 
gotten the  substantial  help  that  "  mere  trifle  " — of  which 
he  spoke  so  contemptuously — so  cruelly,  because  he  said 
it  to  her — had  proved.  From  her  no  answer  came  to 
this  remark  ;  and  he  was  obliged,  presently,  to  go  on,  that 
the  uncomfortable  silence  might  be  broken. 


THE    SCHOOL    TEACHER    IN    THE    WAY.  33 

"  Do  you  agree  to  it  ?  You  are  not  going  to  be  so 
foolish,  certainly,  as  to  fight  against  your  own  interests  ! 
Recollect.  I  am  a  medical  man  !  and  I  say  tha£.you  need 
rest.  You  are  getting  languid,  and  pale,  and  faded. 
Your  violent  headaches  are  a  warning;  take  care  of 
yourself  in  time.  Look  at  Miss  Scroggs,  and  take 
warning." 

"  Horace,  don't  speak  so  of  that  woman ;  laugh  at  me 
if  you  must.  I  have  no  feeling  about  that,  but  the 
Scroggs  wore  herself  out  taking  care  of  her  old  grand- 
father who  died  this  morning.  Her  shadowy  face  and 
body  tell  a  story  for  her  that  should  make  you  respect 
her  at  least.  As  for  myself,"  she  continued  with  less 
spirit,  and  the  momentary  flush  fading  from  her  cheek, 
"  I  am  not  afraid  of  my  looks — my  work  is  not  hard 
enough  to  make  any  decided  change  in  them.  I  had 
rather  go  on  with  the  school." 

"  Then,  really,  I  don't  see  any  other  way  for  you  than 
to  give  a  little  larger  scope  to  your  self-denial,"  said 
Horace,  speaking  lightly.  "  For  how  are  you  going  to 
manage  mother  and  I  ?  We  are  dead  set  against  any 
more  schooling  this  summer ;  now  don't  be  cross  about 
it,  there  's  a  dear,  but  tell  me  what  you  honestly  think 
about  it?" 

"  Why  you  know  what  I  think,  Horace." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  the  heat  in  that  shed  of  a  school- 
room, last  summer  ?"  he  asked. , 

"  No — but  you  remember  we  had  another  door  and 
window  opened  this  spring." 

"  Well ;  we  won't  talk  about  it.  It  is  not  worth  an 
argument.  There  is  no  necessity  for  the  school  this 
summer,  and  that  argument.  I  'm  sure,  is  direct,  and  ap- 
peals to  your  common  sense.  You  are  not  going  to  kill 
yourself.  That  is  the  conclusion  we  have  come  at.  Two 
against  one — you  will  make  a  bad  job  of  it." 

2* 


34  GETTING    ALONG. 

'•  How  shall  we  manage  ?  how  shall  we  get  on  then  ?" 
asked  Leah.  ^ 

"  You  are  so  set  in  your  ways,  I  think  I  '11  not  tell 
you  just  now.  We  will  talk  no  more  about  it  to-night." 

And  no  more  would  he  talk  about  it.  Not  that  he 
was  annoyed;  if  she  inferred  that,  it  was  because  he 
wished  her  to  do  so;  he  felt  ashamed  to  lay  before  her 
the  expedient  to  which  he  was  about  to  resort ;  the  dis- 
posal of  those  precious  tools.  How  instantly  she  would 
reject  the  plan  on  her  own  behalf,  how  much  she  would 
oppose  it  on  theirs,  he  well  knew.  His  sister  was  not  so 
ambitious  to  get  on  ...  That  infant-school  teaching 
was  a  small  business,  it  is  true,  when  compared  with  the 
government  of  a  nation,  or  the  great  achievement  of  an 
artist — but  it  was  a  work  worthy  of  a  seraph,  compared 
with  the  occupation  to  which  her  brother  was  beginning 
to  aspire. 

Never  until  now  had  Leah  suspected  the  power,  or  the 
purpose,  of  her  brother,  but  now  she  said,  <;  I  had  rather 
know  your  plan  than  be  thinking  that  you  could  have 
any  in  view  that  you  would  not  be  glad  to  let  me  share." 

This  approach  to  the  truth  was  not  calculated  to  make 
Horace  more  communicative,  but  the  reverse.  He  had 
placed  himself  in  a  position  from  which,  when  the  awk- 
wardness of  its  novelty,  and  some  faint  confused  sus- 
picions of  its  impregnability  were  gone,  he  would  obtain 
a  clearer  vision  than  he  now  had,  and  be  less  troubled 
with  doubts  of  himself.  Very  soon  those  doubts  would 
all  be  turned  over  to  her  charge — on  that  meek  scape- 
goat he  would  be  sure  to  fling  all  blame  of  ill-success, 
if  ill-success  should  attend  him — he  could  henceforth 
make  no  confidant  of  her — he  had  no  hope,  no  aspiration 
that  he  would  not  shrink  from  unveiling  to  her  .  .  .  How 
lonely  they  left  her  to  go  on  the  way  of  life  !  Into  what 
solitude  the  loving  heart  was  driven. 


FALCON'S  DISCOVERY.  35 


VII. 

IN  due  time,  and  it  was  not  a  long  time  after  Susan's 
return  home,  Mr.  Falcon  and  Clarence  Baldwin  made 
their  proposed  visit  to  the  beach. 

We  may  best  understand  it,  and  its  results,  from  the 
following  letter,  which  Mr.  Falcon  wrote  to  a  friend  on 
his  return  : , 

"  DEAR  JACOBUS, — I  have  seen  Mark  Leighton.  You 
will  be  about  as  much  startled  at  this  intelligence  as  if  I 
had  somewhere  encountered  an  attache  from  '  the  undis- 
covered country.'  I  came  home  bent  on  despatching 
this  fact  to  you  by  telegraph ;  but  as  I  drew  out  the 
paper  for  the  purpose  of  jotting  down  the  facts — it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  should,  in  so  doing,  only  occasion  a 
tumult  of  unnecessary  excitement.  And  besides,  he  is 
not,  as  you  might  infer,  alive  for  me,  or  for  you.  The 
man  is  dead,  sir,  dead  to  us,  I  say.  I  grieve  at  this — it 
makes  me  melancholy.  But  I  must  state  it  in  plain 
words,  or  you  would  be  posting  down  here,  and  if  you 
came  you  would  not  see  Mark  Leighton. 

"  I  was  at  the  sea-beach  with  my  young  charge — of 
whom  more  in  a  future  paragraph,  therefore  keep  your 
eyes  open,  do,  dear  Momus  !  to  the  end  of  this  lucubra- 
tion ; — and  it  happened,  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon, 
that  I  strolled  along  the  sand^  beach  and  came  upon  a 
man. 

"  A  lofty,  commanding  person,  thin,  almost  to  ghastli- 
ness,  from  incessant  energy  of  thought :  head  bent  for- 
ward, hands  clasped  behind  him,  striding  on  as  if  to  a 
martial  tune.  You  see ; — you.  remember.  I  followed 
in  his  steps,  not  carelessly,  not  thoughtlessly ; — you 
know  I  could  not  walk  in  Mark  Leighton's  steps  ignorant- 
ly.  He  evidently  did  not  hear  me  approaching.  He 


36  GETTING    ALONG. 

was  lost  in  thought,  sir — you  understand  again.  I  did 
not  wait  till  I  could  see  his  face  before  I  decided  that  this 
was  he.  Some  time  ago,  looking  into  some  old  school- 
books  he  had  given  the  fisherman's  daughter  to  study,  I 
learned  his  whereabouts  .  .  .  What  is  time  ?  The 
quarter  of  a  century  has  gone  since  we  were  young  men  to- 
gether— but  I  was  as  aware  of  him,  walking  in  his  shadow, 
as  though  we  had  parted  but  an  hour  before. 

"  And  as  I  drew  nearer  to  him,  I  said,  '  five  and 
twenty  years.'  I  endeavored  to  give  my  voice  its  old 
tone — but  its  elasticity  was  gone,  it  stubbornly  main- 
tained its  long-established  harshness.  '  We  parted,  sir,' 
said  he,  looking  up,  recognizing  me,  completing  my  sen- 
tence, and  striding  on.  '  Are  you  so  implacable,  Mark 
Leighton  ?'  I  asked.  At  this  he  halted,  turned  and  faced 
me — then,  '  Go  your  way,  Falcon,'  he  said — and  of  course 
I  obeyed  him. 

"  And  that  is  the  amount  of  it.  To  him  I  am  only 
the  fanatic  beside  myself  with  delusions  ;  an  unsuccessful 
rival ;  and,  in  some  sort,  an  enemy. 

"  But  is  he  the  happier  man  on  account  of  his  caution, 
and  superior  skill,  and  wonderful  knowledge  that  has 
prevented  him  from  all  the  cheats  of  fancy  ?  He  is  not 
a  happy  man.  His  wisdom  has  not  given  him  any  better 
consolations  in  life  than  I  had  drawn  from  my  mistakes 
and  '  follies.'  Every  harsh  point  of  his  character,  that 
momentary  glance  was  as  convincing  as  daily  intercourse 
would  make  it,  every  harsh  point  stands  out  in  a  inure 
bold  relief.  And  yet,  unbeliever  as  he  is  in  human  na- 
ture, this  little  daughter  of  the  fisherman  is  learning  of 
him  and  from  his  old  school  books,  day  by  day.  Think 
of  that !  that  is  Mark  Leighton.  This  metaphysician, 
transformed,  by  only  a  slight  variation,  from  what  we 
knew  him,  would  have  been  a  character  for  history;  a 
theme  for  the  age.  But  he  had,  above  all  men  I  ever 


THE    GOLD    MINE.  37 

knew,  with  the  exception  of  myself,  the  faculty  of  fight- 
ing against  his  own  interests.  Not  a  perfect  man  in, 
perhaps,  any  sense ;  he  has  disdained  evil ;  but  he  has 
not  fought  against  it.  He  has  stood  aloof  from  personal 
contact  with  it ;  but,  before  his  manly  dignity,  pride,  and 
sense  of  honor  compelled  him  to  do  this,  the  fortress  al- 
ready was  taken ;  a  spy  had  crept  into  it, — and  now,  I 
am  sure  of  it,  he  stands  not  towards  God  in  the  attitude 
of  rebellion,  nor  in  that  of  a  penitent ;  he  calmly  ignores 
the  possibility  of  being  either.  If  he  were  more  actively 
rebellious,  our  literature  would  have  a  greater  name, 
whether  for  good  or  ill,  greater  I  moan  in  the  sense  of 
world-wide  prominence,  than  it  can  now  boast  of.  If 
he  were  a  Christian,  the  religious  world  would  have  an 
apostle  terribly  efficient  in  its  camp.  But,  as  I  say,  he 
is  neither,  and  therefore,  as  I  believe,  a  disappointed 
man,  not  knowing  how  he  has  missed  of  the  position 
which  manifestly  he  set  out  to  obtain. 

"  So  much  for  him.  He  has  beaten  the  dust,  and  I 
the  air ;  yet,  even  shorn  of  all  its  beautiful  delusions,  my 
part  is  the  better  one-£the  buds  of  hope,  even  if  they  are 
nipped  before  blossoming,  prove  something — the}",  or 
their  successors,  will  some  time  expand,  without  danger 
of  frostsJ)  But  away  with  such  old  worn-out  themes  as 
Leightou  and  you  and  I.  I  had  something  to  say  to  you 
about  the  fisherman's  daughter. 

"  Buy  a  tract  of  land,  old  friend,  set  your  laborers  at 
work  on  the  unpromising  field.  If  they  light  upon  a  gold 
mine,  the  poor  earth  will  be  sure  to  get  a  mighty  deal  of 
credit,  and  interest,  and  affection.  If  your  affections  can 
at  this  day  be  indeed  in  the  least  magnetized,  so  as  to 
become  of  the  earth  earthy.  This  child,  Susan,  has 
much  sweetness  of  manner,  lovely  eyes,  a  fine  brow,  and 
a  strong  character.  The  people  among  whom  I  am 
thrown  might,  or  they  might  not,  under  circumstances 


38  GETTING    ALONG. 

other  than  the  present,  take  a  special  interest  in  her. 
But  as  the  facts  are,  she  is  the  gold  mine. 

"  I  told  you  that  I  was  for  the  present  living  in  the 
family  of  Mr.  Baldwin,  and  a  recklessly-dissipated  family 
it  is.  The  father,  and  this  poor  fellow,  Clarence,  are 
hardly  a  make-weight  for  the  senseless  career  of  the  other 
son,  and  the  daughter.  I  told  you,  besides,  of  our  first 
visit  to  the  beach.  That  event,  looked  at  through  the 
light  of  the  present,  was  wonderful.  If  I  am  not  mis- 
taken, Clarence's  passion,  or  whatever  you  may  call  it, 
for  Susan  will  prove  his  perfect  cure.  When  her  name 
is  mentioned  to  him.  as  now  it  is  continually,  it  is  proved 
beyond  all  question — newly  proved  by  every  new  experi- 
ment— to  be  the  magnet  that  draws  out  other  thoughts, 
all  other  thoughts  and  affairs,  mentioned  directly  or 
merely  'suggested,  into  fuller,  more  perfect  connection. 
This  experimenting  daily  proves  more  successful.  It 
fascinates  me  wonderfully.  We  take  her  name  for  the 
point,  and  go  on,  chiefly  occupying  ourselves  with  draw- 
ing out  his  recollections  of  the  past  and — what  has  been, 
until  the  application  of  this  magic  wakener  of  thought, 
more  difficult — recollections  of  the  recent,  as  well  as  of 
the  distant  past.  For  to  establish  his  memory  anew  in 
its  natural  strength  and  coherence,  is,  as  I  have  before 
told  you,  the  essential  thing.  That  accomplished,  all  is 
done.  What  hosts  of  men  we  have  known,  oh,  Momus ! 
who  stood  quite  as  much  in  need  of  the  operation  of  this 
miracle  of  love  as  he  ! 

"  It  would,  of  course,  be  impossible  for  you  to  detect 
in  Susan's  face  the  beauty  that  he  sees  there,  or  to  find 
in  her  voice  the  melody  that  he  discovers.  But  the  mu- 
sic and  the  beauty  are  both  there,  doubtless.  They  only 
need  the  discernment. 

"  It  is  hoped  that  some  arrangement  will  be  made 
soon,  which  will  allow  the  daily,  the  constant  intercourse 


JACOBUS    INTERROGATED.  39 

of  Clarence  and  Susan.  They  must  grow  into  each 
other ;  their  life  must  become  incorporate,  one,  or  we 
fail.  It  is  not  possible  that  Dillon,  the  fisherman,  could 
be  persuaded  to  make  his  residence  in  the  Hall ;  but  we 
build  up  a  hope  that  something  may  be  effected,  accord- 
ing to  our  need,  out  of  the  fact  that,  last  winter,  the  old  man 
suffered  severely  from  a  rheumatic  attack.  So  we  go,  help- 
ed on  our  way  by  each  other's  infirmities  !  If  all  we  hope 
is  given  us,  the  last  ten  fruitless  years- — no,  I  will  not  call 
them  fruitless  (they  have  wrought  their  result  in  myself, 
if  not  elsewhere),  but  they  have  not  proved  greatly  yield- 
ing— will  be  crowned  to  me.  To  have  brought  this 
youth  to  life,  is,  you  will  allow,  a  god-like  work — such, 
certainly,  as  needed  the  direction  and  aid  of  Grod  himself, 
for  which  I  have  not  ceased  to  pray. 

"  Jacobus,  what  art  thou  doing  ?  Gird  up  thyself 
now,  like  a  man,  and  answer  me  these  three  things.  Art 
thou  regretful  that  thou  didst  never  take  unto  thyself  a 
wife  ?  .  .  .  For  I  have  seen  a  woman  who  has  made  me 
long  for  a  home  .  .  .  Should  a  man  marry  in  his  boy- 
hood ?  or  will  it  do  to  venture  when  the  ways  are  set 
that  they  cannot  be  moved  ?  There  is  a  light  fall  of 
snow  on  my  head,  which  no  spring  will  remove,  but  my 
heart  is  warm  beneath.  Snow  keeps  warm  the  roots  of 
living  things  in  winter.  And,  man,  are  you  prosperous 
and  happy  ?  Farewell,  Jacobus.  You  will  never  ask  me 
again  if  I  have  seen  Mark  Leighton.  You  will  never 
speculate  more  about  the  disappearance  of  his  wife.  It 
was  the  setting  of  a  great  hope  to  behold  him  ;  for  I  had 
hoped,  in  spite  of  myself,  through  all  these  years,  for,  I 
know  not  what. 

« Thine,  FALCON." 


40  GETTING   ALONG. 


VIII. 

THIS  visit,  of  which  Falcon  writes,  was  more  mo- 
mentous than  she  guessed  to  Susan  :  every  way  more  mo- 
mentous. 

In  the  first  place,  the  actual  results  that  followed  Mr. 
Falcon's  observations  on  Clarence  in  this  re  union — which 
were  duly  reported  to  Mr.  Baldwin;  for  with  a  more 
manifest  significance  than  before,  the  old  man  now  habitu- 
ally pronounced  Susan  his  daughter ;  and  taking  Falcon 
into  counsel,  they  went  into  a  solemnly-deliberate  consult- 
ation as  to  the  best  ways  and  means  to  be  pursued  in 
order  to  secure  the  result  at  which  they  were  now  aim- 
ing. 

And  then  Mr.  Falcon  had  told  Susan  that  he  had  seen 
Stella  Cammon;  and  he  brought  down  the  message  that 
the  beach  was  soon  to  have  another  visitor,  who  had  not 
looked  upon  the  ocean  since  she  was  a  child.  That  intel- 
ligence caused  Susan  to  be  joyful ;  and  her  joy  made  her 
forget  herself,  and  drew  her  out,  and  together  with  her 
pitying  regard,  led  her  into  long,  gay  conversations  with 
poor  Clarence,  who  listened  to  her,  as  indeed  he  might, 
as  to  an  angel  bringing  glad  tidings  of  great  joy  to  him. 
For  her  mind  was  projecting  itself  into,  through,  the  dark- 
ness of  his  mind. 

And  then,  moreover — oh,  moreover !  when  the  visit 
was  over,  and  they  were  gone,  there  was  something,  some 
one,  besides  these,  of  whom  Susan  could  but  think.  In 
her  hands  she  held  a  package  which  David  Baldwin  sent 
to  her.  She  to  whom  the  garden  flowers  seemed  so  pre- 
cious, did  she  rejoice  in  this  bit  of  a  white  parcel  more 
than  in  the  rose-tree,  and  t!he  pots  of  fragrant  heliotrope, 
and  gorgeous  fuscias,  that  Clarence  brought  home  with 
him  in  the  carriage  for  her  ? 


THE   NOTE    OF   PROMISE.  41 

Was  not  their  beauty  before  her  eyes,  and  their  fra- 
grance floating  around  her  ?  .  .  .  but  they  only  served 
to  heighten  the  delicious  dream  into  which  the  few  words 
of  David's  note  had  carried  her  !  Again,  and  again,  and 
again,  she  read  it — and  when  she  knew  it  all  by  heart,  she 
laid  it  in  her  bosom.  Yet  how  often  she  drew  it  forth 
again,  just  to  look  at  the  beautiful  white  perfumed  paper 
— the  elegant  writing — the  crest  on  the  seal — his  initials 
stamped  upon  the  page,  making  it  doubly  his  and  her 
own  ! — had  he  not  given  it  to  her  ? 

There  was  nothing  in  the  note — it  only  began  with 
"  Dear  Susan,"  and  contained  a  few  words  of  common- 
place. He  asked  her  if  she  were  not  coming  up  to  make 
another  visit  at  the  Hall,  and  said  something  about  driving 
down  that  he  might  have  a  sail  with  her  some  day — that 
was  all ;  but  little  as  it  was,  enchantment  lurked  in  the 
words ;  from  out  them  grew  rare  visions — she  did  go  up 
and  visit  at  the  Hall  again  .  .  .  and  to  the  beach 
came  he. 

And  she  built  a  bark,  the  dreaming  child,  such  as  never 
stood  upon  the  docks,  nor  in  the  brain  of  a  ship-builder, 
and  she  hung  above  it  shining  sails,  and  out  upon  the 
shining  sea  they  went  together,  she  and  David  Baldwin  • 
the  sea  was  calm,  motionless,  and  glowing  in  the  sunlight, 
and  yet — oh,  mystery ! — a  breeze  swept  swift  and  strong 
above  the  deep,  and  filled  the  sails ;  and  the  light  bark 
danced  along  the  water  far  out  upon  the  sea,  and  the  shore 
faded  away — its  bleak  and  barren  line  was  lost  to  sight ; 
and  there,  alone  beside  him,  she  sailed  afar  into  the 
sunlit  eternity  of  love.  And,  without  a  book,  he  read 
there  lovely  poems  to  her  in  this  her  own  world  of  the 
sea,  as  there  in  his  world  of  the  stately  garden  once. 
And  she  forgot  that  she  was  poor — she  wondered  not  if 
she  were  fair — he  was  all  in  all — the  beauty,  and  the  wis- 
dom, and  the  glory  of  the  world. 


42  GETTING   ALONG. 


IX. 

Bur  the  summer  will  slip  away  from  us,  while  in  this 
vagrant  way  we  stroll  about ;  and  our  little  household 
at  the  Elms  will  get  quite  beyond  our  sight,  if  we  are  not 
speedily  mindful  of  them. 

Our  Stella  has  not  yet  received  her  summons  to  the 
country ;  for  Violet  and  her  baby  continue  to  receive  the 
hospitalities  of  the  lady  of  the  Elms. 

On  gorgeous  wings,  and  full  of  song,  the  summer 
hours  are  fleeting  over  the  young  mother ;  and  Miss 
Watson,  watchful  and  observant,  has  beheld  the  renewal, 
the  sweet  miracle  of  spring  in  that  young  life,  over  which 
a  cruel  frost  had  fallen. 

It  was  Violet's  first  summer  in  the  country  That  it 
should  be  spent  under  Miss  Watson's  auspices,  was  it  not 
somewhat  remarkable?  That  the  wise  woman  should 
have  been  able  to  enter  so  thoroughly  into  the  joy  of 
Violet,  this  was  not  strange ;  but  that  she  should  sympa- 
thize with  her  in  it — that  her  investigations  should  all 
have  been  suspended,  and  by  the  same  cause,  in  the  same 
yielding  to  the  enthusiasm  of  her  guest,  was,  perhaps, 
not  quite  what  we  might  have  looked  for.  Yet  this  was 
true.  The  innocent  joy  that  welled  up,  unrestrained, 
from  the  heart  before  her  eyes,  the  reviving  strength  and 
spirits  of  Violet,  proved  irresistibly  infectious ;  it  was 
better  to  sit  in  the  arbor  built  in  the  shade  of  the  wood, 
and  read  the  wife's  face  while  it  bent  over  one  of  Silsey's 
letters,  than  to  pore  over  all  philosophies,  from  the  mos't 
"  positive  "  to  the  most  subtle  of  all  moonshiney  em- 
bodiments. Miss  Watson,  though  she  did  not  lose 
thought  of  Stella,  was  in  no  haste  to  make  a  change  of 
guests.  The  Sabbath  quiet  of  a  peaceful,  happy  heart 
she  was  in  no  haste  to  be  rid  of,  for  the  sake  of  contact 


OUR    VIOLET    IN    THE    WOODS.  43 

with  the  restlessness  of  Stella  Caramon.  The  delicious 
spell  was  subduing  to  the  spirit,  as  that  soft  blue  haze 
which  subdued  the  hard,  abrupt  outlines  of  the  distant 
hills,  making  the  landscape  harmonize  with  the  sun's 
steadfast  radiance ;  she  was  in  no  haste  to  forego  the  rest 
of  Violet's  presence — the  repose  was  sweet  to  her. 

And  who  can  tell  how  full,  to  overflowing,  was  the  cup 
of  which  Violet  here  drank  ? 

Song  burst  from  her  lips,  by  joyous,  irresistible  impul- 
sion ;  she  must  give  utterance  to  the  gladness  of  her  heart. 

How  she  starts  up  the  echoes  from  the  heart  of  her 
audience — doing  what,  mayhap,  you,  oh  famous  singer, 
cannot  do;  for  nothing  but  the  voice  of  actual  song  can 
do  it,  inspiring  every  listening  bird  to  echo,  making  how 
divine  a  chaos !  How  they  chatter,  and  laugh,  and  weep 
in  that  chorus !  their  hearts  are  so  full,  their  joy  is  so 
exultant  and  intense,  it  must  laugh,  it  must  weep  itself 
out  into  hearing  and  sight.  Does  your  triumph,  fair 
lady,  compare  with  this  ?  Does  the  exultant  sense  of 
your  achievement  take  the  place,  usurping  all  the 
manifold  sweet  satisfactions  of  a  responding  sympa- 
thy? .  .  .  Sympathy!  has  it  not  vanished  from  parlor  as 
from  church  ?  When  the  fire  comes  down  again  upon 
the  altar,  and,  in  its  divine  contagion,  spreads  among  the 
congregation,  it  will  stop  not  there,  even  to  the  melting 
away  of  the  icy  pillars  on  which  our  social  temple  stands 
— it  shall  spread  and  convey  itself.  Oh,  flame,  that  shall 
be  mightier  than  the  strength  of  him  who  drew  down  the 
walls  and  roof  upon  the  heads  of  the  mocking  and  scoffing 
people — oh,  power  and  indignation  mightier  than  Sam- 
son's, assert  thyself,  and  come  !  the  singers  in  the  wood 
are  waiting,  the  prisoners  and  captives  wait  their  thous- 
and years  of  ransom— come  !  they  wait  to  echo  the  song 
upon  their  lips,  with  hearts  to  these  many  ages  waiting 
for  deliverance — come  ! 


44  GETTING    ALONG. 

The  baby's  eyes  grow  bluer,  heavenlier  every  day; 
and  health  smiles  in  the  face  that,  verily,  to  the  mother's 
eye,  is  the  face  of  an  angel.  It  reddens  in  the  cheek  and 
lip — fills  out  the  small,  wan  face ;  the  soft,  brown  hair 
has  a  sunny  glow  upon  it,  the  strengthening  voice  a 
merrier  sound.  She  lies  upon  the  long,  soft,  shining 
grass,  and  makes  astronomical  observations  with  a  rever- 
ent wonder  that  tells  the  story  of  her  origin,  without  the 
aid  of  any  preacher.  The  "  Conflict  of  Ages  "  might  well 
suspend,  and  the  ages  learn  a  lesson  from  that  infant's 
upturned  eyes.  She  creeps  among  the  beds  of  flowers, 
for  Miss  Watson  has  a  garden  which  she  cultivates 
assiduously  while  she  is  in  the  country,  and  on  her  knees, 
among  these  blossoms,  Viola  might  put  a  botanist  to 
shame.  The  caterpillar,  and  the  beetle,  and  the  spinning 
spider,  too — not  one  of  them  escapes  her  investigation. 
Why,  what  a  very  naturalist  the  baby  is  !  .  .  .  Oh,  Viola, 
fair  flower  in  the  garden  of  Nature,  be  ever  reverent,  be- 
lieving, wondering,  as  now,  and  what  frost  of  earth  could 
blight  thee  ?  what  summer  heat  could  smite  thec  ?  what 
hate  could  compass,  or  what  sin  betray  thee  ? 

Silsey,  in  his  letters — which  are  so  frequent,  that  Vio- 
let has  long  since  been  compelled  to  forego  all  specula- 
tions on  the  point,  and,  without  any  troublesome  sense 
of  presumption,  she  looks  for  them  every  forty-eight 
hours — Silsey,  in  these  letters,  is  also  at  the  Elms,  and 
Violet  believes  herself  imparadiscd. 

It  is  early  in  the  morning.  There  was  a  gale  last 
night,  and  Miss  Watson  has  a  deal  of  work  to  do,  tying 
up  the  prostrate  sweet-peas  and  morning-glories.  Violet 
sits  on  the  door-step  of  the  cottage,  and  sorts  the  flowers. 
She  is  to  make  a  bouquet  of  white  rose-buds  for  Miss 
Watson — for  this  afternoon  is  the  funeral  of  a  neigh- 
bor's child,  and  Miss  Watson  is  never  unmindful  of  any 


VIOLET'S  LOOK  INTO  THE  FUTURE.  45 

occasion  of  domestic  joy  or  sorrow  in  the  families  around 
her. 

More  than  one  tear  has  fallen  on  those  buds  since 
Violet  gathered  them — often  she  pauses  in  her  work  and 
looks  from  them  to  the  little  one  close  by  her  side,  and 
thinks— she  thinks  more  and  more  sadly.  If  Viola 
were  not  there  .  .  .  if  it  were  all  horrible  silence  around 
her  in  place  of  the  slender  sweet  voice  that  is  learning  her 
name,  and  repeats  it  over  and  over,  knowing,  with  a 
child's  deep  intuition,  since  the  sound  was  first  uttered 
in  her  ear,  that  it  is  of  all  names  the  most  dear  and 
blessed  she  shall  ever  learn  to  speak.  If  somebody  hi 
her  place  were  arranging  those  white  buds  for  another 
little  child — if  she  were  sitting  in  a  darkened  room  be- 
side a  little  bed  where  Viola  was  lying,  blind  and  deaf 
even  to  her  mother  .  .  .  cold,  '  dead.' 

Violet  quite  drops  the  flowers  from  her  hands,  as  she 
persists  in  thinking  of  these  things,  and  now  she  catches 
up  the  child,  and  holds  her  in  her  arms,  and  folds  her 
to  her  bosom,  as  if  there  were  no  power  that  could  take 
her  away. 

Miss  Watson  coming  towards  the  house  beholds  and 
interprets  the  sudden  act — she  sees  the  weeping  mother, 
and  says  quietly  to  herself,  in  the  peacefulness  of  her 
conviction,  "  blessed  be  nothing,"  and  she  turns  away 
that  Violet  may  not  have  the  sense  of  witnesses  in  this 
betrayal  of  her  love  and  her  weakness. 

Poor,  loving  Violet,  pure-hearted,  tender  mother,  it  is 
indeed  the  penalty ;  but  ask  her,  oh  thou  wise  one,  if  she 
would  be  without  the  fear  born  out  of  all  life's  truest, 
deepest  forms,  if  she  would  be  without  even  such  fear, 
if  to  escape  it  she  must  forego  the  love  that  makes  it ! 

In  the  midst  of  this  outburst  of  feeling  comes  happily 
the  mail  carrier,  and  leaves  at  the  gate  the  letter  for 
which  Violet  looks  this  morning.  She  hears  his  voice 


46  GETTING   ALONG. 

speaking  to  Miss  "Watson,  and  she  "  makes  an  effort," 
and  the  light  cloud  breaks  and  vanishes  before  the  bright- 
ness of  the  sun,  which  in  these  days  is  shining  on  her 
heart.  But  Miss  Watson  does  not  couie,  and  by-and-byc 
Violet  begins  to  wonder  at  it — not  suspecting  that  her 
hostess  is  merely  waiting  till  there  shall  be  no  chance  of 
surprising  her  in  tears — and  that  Miss  Watson's  low  and 
musical  voice  was  pitched  at  that  high  key  in  which  she 
just  now  spoke  to  the  carrier-boy,  solely  to  the  end  that 
Violet  might  emerge  from  her  momentary  depression. 

And  so  Violet  illustrates,  even  in  this  way,  as  all 
nature  does  all  spirit,  her  own  free  will,  and  at  the  same 
time  Miss  Watson's  providential  management,  for  rising 
at  length  she  goes  with  Viola  in  her  anus,  in  search  of 
Miss  Watson,  and  the  letter.  Of  the  latter  she  is  over- 
quick  to  catch  a  glimpse  as  it  lies  on  the  frame-work  of 
the  climbing  rose,  where  the  lady  but  now  laid  it.  But 
Violet  does  not  immediately  speak  of  it — and  the  lady 
allows  it  to  remain  there  until  she  has  finished  her  morn- 
ing gardening,  and  then,  suddenly,  she  adverts  to  the  letter 
as  though  it  had  been  for  a  time  forgotten.  All  thia 
while,  however,  she  has  been  watchful,  and  even  stu- 
diously so,  of  the  control  that  Violet  has  been  exerting  over 
herself,  and  the  manner  of  discipline  with  which  she  has 
exercised  herself  pn  account  of  her  recent  weakness ;  un- 
mindful or  ignorant  of  the  fact,  that  when  she  was  weak 
then  she  was  strong — in  a  true  apostolic  sense. 

If  Viola  were  sleeping  now  in  the  cradle  which  Miss 
Watson  had  borrowed  for  the  occasion  of  this  visit  to 
the  Elms,  her  mother  would  delay  until  the  baby  wakened 
before  she  opened  this  letter.  But  now  she  has  Vola, 
wakeful,  in  her  arms,  and  Miss  Watson  says,  "  I  have  to 
go  down  the  hill  for  a  moment ;  when  I  come  back,  you 
shall  tell  me  all  the  gossip  our  friend  has  written  you;" 
and  at  that,  Violet,  feeling  very  grateful  indeed, -goes 


THE    SECURITV.  47 

back  to  the  door-step  and  reads  the  letter  aloud  to  her 
child.  What  letters  are  they  which  he  writes  to  her  ! 
They  are  an  ever-recurring  wonder  to  Silsey's  wife. 
Every  sweet  and  beautiful  thought  he  has,  and  there 
seems  to  be  no  end  to  them,  he  gives  her.  And  she 
can  understand  them  all.  There  is  nothing  to  puzzle  her 
in  all  this  prodigal  display  of  beauty ;  yet  she  ever  reads 
with  trembling — growing  ever  more  conscious  that  what 
he  gives  her  is  a  gift  free  as  it  is  rare ;  she  can  make 
no  claim  upon  him — in  the  hour  when  he  suspends  his 
gifts  .  .  .  she  can  make  no  demand — none  such  as  Miss 
Watson  might  make,  or  any  other  woman  who  equalled 
him  in  any  other  capacity  beside  that  of  loving.  She 
trembled  while  she  drank  this  rich  and  teeming  cup. 
What  secured  it  to  her?  What  assured  her  that  it 
should  never,  while  yet  they  both  lived  on  this  earth,  be 
dashed  away  from  her  lips  ?  Had  she  no  surety  in  the 
mere  fact  that  she  was  such  an  one  as,  in  the  reception  of 
the  great  joy,  ever  looked  to  heaven  in  a  grateful 
acknowledgment?  That  she  never  took  into  her  heart, 
or  hands,  one  of  the  gifts  of  life  without  an  instant 
thankfulness  that  recognized  the  Giver  ?  Was  there  no 
surety  in  this  that  the  human  love  enfolding  her  would 
never  droop  unclasped,  and  leave  her  alone  ?  Had  she 
any  need  of  other  surety  of  her  power  to  bind  him  to 
faithfulness,  than  her  attitude  towards  Heaven  gaye? 

There  was  then  no  waning  of  the  star,  no  lessening  of 
the  joy,  thought  Miss  Watson,  as  she,  coming  up  the  hill, 
heard  the  voice  of  the  young  mother  which  had  broke 
from  its  low  reading  of  those  loving  words  into  a  melodi- 
ous song  .  .  .  the  spell  had  still  duration — the  charm 
efficience. 

"  And  what  have  you  to  give  me  from  that  budget  ?" 
she  asked,  approaching  Violet  through  the  house,  for  she 


48  GETTING   ALONG. 

had  returned  home  by  a  path  which  brought  her  unseen 
to  the  cottage. 

"  Silsey  is  coming  down — it  may  be  to-day  !"  answered 
Violet,  and  after  a  momentary  hesitation  she  extended 
the  letter  to  Miss  Walton.  "  You  can  read  it,"  she  said, 
"there  is  nothing  in  particular — no  news." 

"  Read  me  such  passages  here  and  there  as  you  will.  I 
am  too  tired,"  was  the  answer — for  Miss  Watson  had  per- 
ceived the  reluctance  with  which  Violet,  in  spite  of  her- 
self, made  the  offer.  "  Silsey  always  refreshes  me — he 
gives  great  thoughts." 

But  there  were  no  great  thoughts,  nothing  in  fact  but 
the  most  beautiful  and  tender  sentiment,  in  this  letter, 
or  in  anything  that  Silsey  wrote  his  wife.  Sometimes 
in  a  paragraph  he  would  propose  some  problem  for  Miss 
Watson's  solution  ;  and  it  was  pleasant  to  note  on  such 
occasions  the  not  very  ingenious  rapidity  with  which  his 
wife  read  the  message.  As  if  it  were  all  plain  as  the  al- 
phabet to  her  mind,  when  she  really  understood  not  one 
word  of  it.  And  yet  she  was  free  to  confess  as  much  as 
this  to  herself,  and  to  her  listener,  the  moment  after. 

And  now,  when  Miss  Watson  would  not  take  the  letter, 
and  looking  through  the  pages  the  wife  saw  nothing  that 
she  might  detect,  as  of  any  worth  separate  from  the  rest, 
she  began  at  the  beginning  and  read  the  whole  aloud. 
With  trembling  voice,  and  low,  she  read.  How  heard 
that  listener  ?  Did  not  her  heart  beat  more  quickly,  for 
she  knew  that  she  was  standing  in  the  very  sanctuary  of 
love?  The  grand  hymn,  not  less  grand  because  sung  so 
lowlily,  this  resonant  hymn  she  heard  was  the  very  strain 
that  she  in  her  own  youth  had  sung.  She  had  labored 
since  then  among  the  worldly,  and  argued  among  debaters, 
but,  so  well  she  remembered  that  hymn,  she  could  have 
sung  it  through  without  a  solitary  false  note  that  day. 

Not  a  word  said  she  when  Violet  folded  up  the  let 


STELLA    BY    THE    SEA.  49 

ter,  and  bent  her  fair  young  face   down  nearer   to  her 
child's. 

From  her  who  trod  with  awed  spirit  and  hesitating 
step  along  this  sacred  path  of  life,  pausing  oft,  and  look- 
ing with  uneasy  eye  upon  the  path  by  which  she  came, 
and  that  which  spread  before  her,  we  will  go  back  to  the 
sea,  and  to  another  life,  that  strives,  also  according  to  its 
nature,  for  the  freedom  that,  though  unwittingly,  was  like- 
wise Violet  Silsey's  highest  aim  and  need. 


X. 

"  WHAT  sort  of  people  are  you  down  here  ?  I  always 
thought  that  the  old  mill  deserved  a  ghost,  Susan,  but  I 
never  supposed  I  should  dash  my  brains  out  ingloriously, 
trying  to  get  a  glimpse  of  it.  Come,  come,  Susan,  leave 
your  dough !  one  would  think  you  had  a  regiment  on 
hand  to  feast,  by  the  way  you  work.  I  assure  you  I  'm 
no  gourmand.  Come  out,  and  tell  me  what  monster  it  is 
you  have  caged  up  in  our  old  play-house  .  .  .  Ah  me ! 
what  a  place  for  play  it  was,  though !" 

This  was  the  voice  of  the  rare  vision  that  had  burst 
upon  Susan  the  day  after  Mr.  Falcon's  visit.  She  had 
come  down  with  Miss  Judith  Mar  from  St.  John's,  and 
had  prevailed  upon  Miss  Judith  to  return  to  town  without 
her,  promising  that  she  herself  would  follow  her  thither 
on  the  following  Monday — it  was  now  Saturday. 

Susan,  who  was  at  work  in  the  kitchen,  hearing  the 
laughing  voice,  for  Stella  had  set  out  an  hour  before  for 
a  long  stroll  by  herself,  came  out  to  the  door-step. 

"  You've  been  up  to  the  mill,  Stella !"  she  exclaimed, 
in  evident  consternation,  remembering  the  aversion  that 
Mr.  Leighton  had,  in  more  ways  than  one,  manifested  to 
receiving  company.  "  What  did  you  see  ';" 

vrv..  IT  3 


50  GETTING   ALONG. 

"Nothing  an  inch  before  my  eyes.  I  contrived  to  • 
climb  up  the  stairway — it 's  darker  than  it  used  to  be, 
Susan  .  .  .  but  I  went  on,  thinking  I  should  come  to  the 
light  at  length.  The  door  stood  open,  I  missed  a  step  and 
fell  in,  head  first,  making  an  oriental  obeisance.  I  broke 
my  neck  doing  it,  as  you  see,  which  proves  that  this  style 
of  genuflection  is  n%ot  natural  to  me." 

"  Your  forehead  is  bleeding  !  You  have  hurt  yourself!" 
said  Susan,  alarmed,  for  as  Stella  removed  the  handker- 
chief from  her  forehead,  she  saw  that  it  was  stained  with 
blood. 

"  Yes ;  the  orientalism  does  n't  agree  with  me.  I  never 
was  good  at  bowing  before  images.  But  the  adventure 
was  really  worth  something.  And  you  see  it  is  only  a 
scratch." 

She  repeated  the  assurance,  Susan  looked  so  anxious, 
and,  for  another  reason  thau  the  oozing  blood,  so  troubled. 

"  Did  you  see — " 

"  Him  ?     Yes  !  verily,  verily." 

"  Did  he  speak  to  you  ?  Did  you  go  in  ?  What  did 
he  say  ?  Wait  till  I  get  something  for  that  cut,  and  then 

tell  me."  "ioAVS*. 

"  He  bade  me,  the  -noDgomm  did,  bathe  it   in  cold 

water,  and  I  would  prevent  discoloration." 

While  they  were  applying  the  remedy,  Stella  said : 

"  Why  did  you  not  toll  me  about  Bluebeard  ?" 

"  I  did  not  send  you  to  the  mill,"  said  Susan.     :<  How 

did  I  know  you  would  go  ?" 

"  What ! — well  if  you  had  not  been  so  worried  about 

that  sweet-cake,  which  is  burning  at  this  blessed  moment 

in  the  stove,  I  believe — run  and  sec,  for  this  breeze  is 

likely  to  make  me  as  voracious  as  a  thorough-bred  fish." 
When  Susan  came  back  the  next  minute,  her  face 

glowing  with  the  haste  she  had  made,  Stella  said,  with  a 

graver  face  and  accent : 


THE    OLD    TIME.  51 

{l  Where  should  I  have  gone,  if  not  there  ?  It  is  one 
of  the  holiest  places  in  the  world  to  me.  And  so  is  this 
house — and  you  are  one  of  my  best  friends.  You  know 
why.  Your  blessed  mother,  and  poor  dear  Tom,  and 
you,  and  this  beach,  make  the  brightest  and  happiest  of 
my  childish  recollections.  Have  you  time  to  sit  here 
without  stirring  again  for  half  an  hour  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  tell  me,  you  have  not  half  told  me  yet,  tell 
me  about  your  mother  and  Tom.  And  Susan,  let  me 
sleep  in  Tom's  own  room  while  I  stay.  I  loved  him 
dearly,  Susan.  Not  like  you,  maybe,  but  he  was  just 
as  dear  to  me  as  you.  I  used  to  think  of  him  so  much — • 
how  you  used  to  deck  me  out  with  those  shell  orna- 
ments !  He  called  me  a  queen  then  ...  I  remembered 
him  when  I  grew  older,  and  went  to  school.  I  thought 
how  he  was  growing  up  to  be  a  great,  strong,  manly  fel- 
low, and  so  handsome,  so  different  .  .  .  dear  me  ! — oh 
you  don't  know  how  often,  when  I  have  been  lonely,  and 
home-sick,  and  forlorn,  I  have  thought  of  you  all !" 

Not  once  while  she  spoke  thus  did  Susan  look  up  into 
Stella's  face.  The  voice  was  sad  music,  and  Susan's 
tears  fell  fast  hearing  what  the  voice  said.  Stella  shed 
no  tear,  but  less  power  of  self-restraint,  less  control  of 
her  emotions,  would  have  seen  her  in  passionate  weeping 
swayed  only  by  such  emotion  as  rent  and  tossed  her 
heart  at  this  moment. 

Susan  did  not  immediately  reply  to  these  questions 
and  words.     Stella  understood  the  silence,  and  did  not . 
hasten  her. 

But  at  length  Susan  went  through  the  whole  story 
of  her  losses,  and  from  the  first  word  to  the  last  Stella 
listened,  and  frequent  tears  told  how  the  story  came  to 
her  .  .  .  Still  reverie  and  retrospection  were  not  her 
chief  faculty  this  day,  and  soon  far  other  thoughts,  which 


52  GETTING   ALONG. 

concerned  the  living  present,  thronged  upon  her,  and  ere 
long  these  found  a  witness  for  themselves. 

"  You  know  the  tenant  of  the  mill ;  for  he  called  me 
Susan.  Be  thought  it  was  you.  I  must  go  up  there  by 
broader  daylight." 

"  If  he  will  let  you."  said  Susan. 

"  Is  there  any  doubt  about  that  ?  That  will  be  de- 
lightful !  What  is  the  man,  a  scholar  ?  It  was  such  a 
treat  to  look  into  his  den  ;  the  books  and  the  dust — and 
he  such  a  strange  looking  person." 

"  Did  he  say  anything  ?"  asked  Susan,  not  a  little 
curious,  since  Stella  would  talk  about  him,  to  know  how 
he  would  appear  to  her. 

"  Yes — he  asked  me  where  I  was  going,  and  where  I 
came  from.  And  of  course  I  satisfied  his  curiosity." 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  do  tell  me." 

"  I  told  him  that  I  came  from  a  very  respectable 
place,  but  that  I  was  not  so  clear  about  where  I  was 
going.  It  seemed  to  me  from  the  evidences,  that  I  was 
on  the  verge  of  Pluto's  dominion-4fbr  he  was  smoking 
like  a  vojcano — and  there  he  sat,  immovable,  till  I  had 
picked  myself  up^  Then  he  condescended  to  come  down 
from  his  throne  and  examine  my  poor  abused  forehead 
by  the  light  of  his  pipe.  I  wish  you  could  have  heard 
him  recommend  the  cold-water  application.  He  laughed 
in  my  face,  and  I  laughed  in  his.  Don't  look  so  horror- 
struck  .  .  .  He  was  very  curious  to  learn  if  I  came  from 
Susan.  He  will  be  down  to  discover.  Wait  and  see. 
What  did  you  call  him  ?" 

"  Mr.  Leighton,"  said  Susan,  who  had  not  before  men- 
tioned his  name. 

"  But  tell  me  about  him." 

All  that  Susan  had  to  tell  was  briefly  said — but  the 
story  was  interrupted  by  her  father's  coming  home. 

Stella's   spirits  were   unflagging.      She  played  chess 


LONGING.  53 

with  Dillon,  repeated  poetry^  told  anecdotes,  and  sang 
songs,  and  kept  the  old  man  from  dozing  long  after  his 
usual  hour  of  retiring. 

"  Is  not  your  Mr.  Falcon  the  kindest  man,  that  ever 
lived  ?"  she  asked  Susan,  when  she  kissed  her  good-night. 

"  He  is,  indeed,"  answered    Susan. 

"  How  happy  you  are  with  your  father.  Do  you  think 
Aunt  Judith  would  make  a  good  wife  for  Mr.  Falcon  ? 
we  should  have  some  one  at  the  head  of  our  house  then. 
A  great  thing  it  must  be  to  have  a  father  !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Susan  thoughtfully,  as  if  the  fact  had  not 
occurred  to  her  before,  "  it  is  .  .  .  " 

"  Everything  goes  on  after  such  a  fashion,  where  there 
are  only  women.  Indeed,  I  have  sometimes  found  my- 
self driven  to  such  an  extremity  that  I  rejoiced  in  the 
chances  that  threw  me  in  among  the  branches  of  a  certain 
family  of  Trees  that  I  know  of,  when  they  were  tossed 
about  in  a  regular  gale.  But  good-night.  Go  to  bed — 
what  a  time  we  will  have  to-morrow  !" 

"  I  wish,"  said  Susan,  halting  yet  longer  and  looking 
seriously,  with  pity  too,  at  Stella,  who  was  laying  aside 
her  ornaments,  "  I  wish  your  father  had  lived,  Stella — " 

"  Dear  child,  don't  speak  of  it,"  said  Stella  quickly. 

"  Why,  don't  you  ?"  Susan  lingered  yet  longer  to  ask. 

"  I !  well,  no  matter,  Susan.     You  know  well  enough 

.    .   how  would  you  manage  to  do  without  your  father  ?" 

';  I  have  always  had  mine,  though.  I  could  not 
live—" 

"  Yes,  you  could,"  said  Stella,  interrupting  her.  "  You 
could  live  if  you  were  deaf,  and  dumb,  and  blind,  and 
idiotic  to  boot — people  often  do.  I  've  seen  some  such — 
very  respectable  people  they  were  too.  Oh,  you  know 
nothing  about  what  folks  can  do,  and  be,  and  bear,  and 
still  live  on.  There,  go  to  bed,  and  see  if  you  can  dream 
any  worse  dreams  than  I  shall  about  Bluebeard." 


54  GETTING    ALONG. 


XI. 

YES  —  she  would  do  that. 

She  thought  of  it  while  lying  wakeful  on  her  bed,  smil- 
ing joyously  to  herself,  even  as  on  the  wakeful  last  night 
she  had  also  smiled.  What  great  things  had  happened 
in  the  last  two  days?  David's  note,  and  now  Stella's 
actual  self  !  She  would  open  her  heart  to  Stella.  Stella 
must  know  that  David  Baldwin  had  written  to  her  —  and 
what  he  had  written  she  must  likewise  know.  Stella  had 
seen  him  —  she  surely  must  have  something  to  say  about 
such  a  man. 

Still  revolving  this  determination,  with  the  first  moment 
of  opportunity  the  next  morning,  Susan  showed  the  note. 

When  Stella  opened  it,  and  glanced  at  the  signature 
before  noticing  the  contents,  she  looked  up  at  Susan  with 
a  quick,  curious  glance.  "  He  writes  a  very  pretty  hand," 
she  said  ;  and  then  rapidly,  so  rapidly  as  to  make  it  ap- 
pear almost  carelessly,  she  read  the  note,  and  returned 
it  ...  "Shall  we  go  and  hunt  up  Mr.  Leighton  ?" 

"  He  will  not  want  us  in  his  study."  said  Susan,  not 
vexed  at  the  reception  her  confiding  mood  had  met,  be- 
cause it  was  impossible  that  she  should  be  vexed  with 
anything  that  her  guest  could  say  or  do  —  but  disappointed 
and  wondering. 

"  Well,  we  can  walk  along  the  beach,  and  we  may  meet 
him.  Your  father  told  me,  for  I  asked  him  about  it,  that 
you  would  be  going  to  recite  to  him." 

"  It  is  Sunday  —  I  never  recite  Sundays,"  said  Susan  ; 
"  and  he  won't  want  us,"  she  continued,  more  decidedly, 
but  blushing  that  she  should  be  speaking  with  so  much 
spirit  to  Stella  Cammon,  before  whom,  in  spite  of  child- 
hood's dear,  familiar  recollections,  she  stood  in  awe  as  in 
a  queenly  presence. 


THE    TEIAL.  55 

"  He  will  not  want  us,"  she  said — -nevertheless  when 
Stella,  laughing,  vanished  from  the  house,  and  went  wan- 
dering along  the  strand,  she  made  haste  to  join  her. 

At  length,  after  an  hour's  promenade,  Susan's  flushed 
face  betokened  to  Stella,  who  turned  to  show  her  the 
shells  she  had  been  gathering  from  the  sand,  that  what 
she  hoped  was  really  at  hand,  and  then  she  heard  the 
sound  of  Leighton's  voice. 

"  Don't  go,  stand  here  and  let  him  come  to  you,"  urged 
Stella ;  "  he  will  do  so  if  he  thinks  you  do  not  hear. 
And  he  ought  to  come  and  inquire  after  my  broken 
head." 

Her  prophecy  was  a  true  one.  In  a  few  minutes  Mr. 
Leighton  came  towards  them. 

"  We  will  have  a  little  sport  with  Bluebeard,"  whis- 
pered Stella  as  he  came,  and  stooping  down,  she  caught  a 
pebble  from  the  sand,  and  slung  it  far  out  amid  the  waves. 
The  next  second  another  went  whizzing  past,  sped  by  a 
more  powerful  hand,  far  out  beyond  the  distance  hers  had 
made.  Again  she  essayed,  and  again,  hurled  by  a  stronger 
hand,  went  far  beyond  a  larger  pebble  still.  Without  a 
word  Stella  made  a  third  and  greater  trial,  more  success- 
ful in  result  than  either  that  had  been  made  before,  and 
as  she  did  so  she  turned  her  flushed  face  in  triumph 
towards  her  rival. 

"  Sufficient  for  the  day,"  said  he. 

"  Because  it  is  Sunday,  or,  you  will  not  contend  with 
me,  sir  ?"  asked  Stella  in  a  deferential  tone,  and  yet  be- 
traying more  dignity  and  pride  in  her  voice  than  Susan 
had  noticed  before. 

"  Oh,  no,  neither  because  of  the  day  nor  the  sex.  I 
have  very  nearly  put  my  arm  out  of  joint,  and  am  quite 
willing  that  you  should  bear  off  the  honor." 

"  I  should  have  chosen  to  fight  the  fight  out." 

Then  with  the  utmost  gravity  Mr.  Leighton  sped  an- 


56  GETTING    ALONCi. 

other  pebble  after  those  which  had  gone  before,  but  less 
vigorously — he  would  give  her  a  fresh  victory. 

<:  Soften  my  defeat,"  said  he,  turning  from  the  sea  to 
Stella,  "  by  saying  that  you  were  not  much  hurt  last 
night." 

She  lifted  the  braided  hair  from  her  forehead  and 
showed  him  the  discolored  circle  hidden  by  it.  ;'  I  plead 
guilty — I  entered  the  forbidden  closet,"  she  said. 

Leigbton  smiled  at  the  allusion.  He  was  in  the  pres- 
ence of  beauty — was  he  beyond  its  influence  ?  he  per- 
ceived, did  he  feel  it  ? 

"  If  you  were  shut  up  in  a  round  tower  like  that,  and 
condemned  to  solitary  confinement,  how  would  you  like 
it  ?"  asked  he. 

"  Of  all  things,  sir ;  I  should  like  nothing  so  well." 

"  With  no  one  to  praise  and  flatter  you  ?" 

Susan  understood  well  the  grave  and  penetrating  look 
he  fixed  on  Stella,  and  remembering  how  those  glances 
had  ever  affected  herself,  she  looked  to  see  how  Stella 
would  meet  them — she  could  not  quite  see,  could  not  at 
all  understand  that  they  fell  like  arrows  against  a  helmet 
of  steel. 

"  There  would  be  no  one  to  praise  or  flatter  you  in 
such  a  place  as  that.  Impossible!" 

"  That  may  be  the  very  reason." 

"  Ah  ?  ...  I  believe  you." 

"  Do  you  indeed,  sir  ?" 

"  You  are  not  indignant  because  of  my  words — you  do 
not  resent  them  ?" 

"  Am  I  not  indignant,  sir  ?" 

"Are  you?" 

"  So  indignant  that  I  will  not  prove  it  to  you." 

"  I  believe  that,  on  the  bare  assertion.  This  is  Miss 
Stella,  of  whom  you  have  told  me,"  said  Mr.  Leighton, 
turning  to  Susan,  "(young  lady,  were  you  brought  up 


DEVICE    FOR    A    BANNEK.  57 

in  a  boarding-school,  or  in  bar-nicks?!?  There  was  an 
amusing  contrast  in  the  gravity  of  tone  with  which  he 
addressed  Stella,  the  deference  of  his  bearing,  and  the 
interest  and  surprise  that  hid  itself,  but  hardly,  in  the 
depths  of  his  eyes. 

"  In  barracks,"  answered  Stella. 

"  So  I  supposed.  Waked  up  in  the  morning  at  the 
sound  of  the  trumpet,  and  falling  asleep  amid  strains  of 
martial  music.  And  you  are  regularly  enlisted.  Have 
bravely  committed  yourself  to  the  fortunes  of  war,  be- 
yond a  doubt.  What  banner  may  be  floating  over  your 
tent-door?" 

"  '  I  am  not  solicitous  for  an  elysium  painted  on  a  shield 
which  others  may  see  me  brandish  in  the  contest;  but  I 
desire  to  bear  upon  my  shoulders  a  real,  not  a  painted 
weight,  of  which  I  may  feel  the  pressure,  but  which  may 
be  imperceptible  to  others.'  I  bow  to  the  sage  who  said 
that  .  .  .  find  me  a  device,  sir — I  would  have  a  banner  of 
my  own." 

"  The  red  cross  of  the  crusader  might  befit,"  said  Mr. 
Leighton;  the  tone  of  each  speaker's  voice  had  greatly 
changed  in  their  last  words. 

"  Can  I  work  out  my  salvation  thus  ?  Last  year  I 
would  have  taken  the  black  veil  if  1  could  have  done  so. 
Would  that  have  been  salvation  ?" 

Here  again  was  she  pouring  out  her  soul  in  another 
stranger's  ear,  or  rather  here  was  she  again  exposing  the 
deep  unquiet  of  her  soul.  She  was  not  one,  as  the  reader 
very  clearly  perceives,  to  go  into  the  silence  of  uncom- 
municable  thought,  and  there  work  out,  in  fear  and  trem- 
bling, the  problem  of  salvation.  Once  risen  in  spirit 
above  conventionalities,  this  question  of  her  life  was  not 
to  work  out  its  answer  in  silence  and  secrecy.  Every 
strong  life  with  which  she  came  in  contact  must  give  her 
such  aid  as  was  in  its  power. 


58  GETTING   ALONG. 

From  her  questioning  of  Mr.  Leigh  ton,  the  reader 
likewise,  and  rightly,  will  infer  that  Stella  was  not  alto- 
gether satisfied  with  the  counsel  of  the  nun,  nor  with  that 
of  Miss  Watson.  She  looked  at  Mr.  Leighton — would 
he  understand  the  meaning  of  this  sudden  burst  of  con- 
fidence ? 

Yes,  he  did  understand  it — he  knew  what  to  make  of  it, 
but  his  response  to  it  was  delayed. 

"  Years,  and  heaven  and  earth  have  taught  you  nothing 
to  say,"  she  demanded ;  sorrowful  was  the  voice.  "  Do 
you  not  know  what  it  is  I  am  seeking?" 

"Who  are  you?"  he  demanded;  but  the  words  were 
gently  said. 

"  An  orphan  girl — Stella,  if  you  like  the  name." 

"  And  are  you  in  great  trouble,  that  you  come  to  me  ?" 

"  No.  Every  thing  is  before  me  that  is  before  any  woman. 
I  am  not  rich,  it  is  true,  but  neither  am  I  poor.  I  am 
not  the  fashion,  but  I  have  position,  and  some  influence, 
I  dare  say.  (If  I  had  replied  to  you  that  I  was  brought 
up  in  a  boarding-school,  would  you  not  have  despised  me 
just  on  account  of  that  1  So  I  said  I  was  brought  up  in 
barracks.  But  I  should  have  said  in  a  convent.^) 

Mr.  Leighton  seemed  lost  in  thought.  As  long  as  she 
spoke  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Stella,  but  as  soon  as  she 
•was  silent  he  turned  partly  away,  and  stepped  forward 
from  the  place  where  he  stood,  as  if  to  shake  off  some 
spell. 

And  then,  for  the  chrysalis  was  broken,  and  there  would 
be  no  rest  again  till  the  life  within  it  had  come  fairly 
forth,  she  went  on  : 

"  I  told  you  I  thought  last  year  of  going  into  a  con- 
vent— to  remain.  Perhaps  you  supposed  that  was  jest 
...  I  meant  it.  I  wanted  to  do  something.  I  'm  not 
content  to  dwell  in  decencies  forever.  (I  'm  not  content 
to  fill  a  place  merely  because  I  happen  to  be  in  it ;  to 


DRINK    YE,    ALL.  59 

turn  on  a  pivot  through  one  little  circle  all  my  days., 
Now,  if  I  am  merely  tempted  by  the  devil  I  would  like 
to  know  it  ...  But,  sir,  if  it  is  the  Spirit  of  Christ's 
teaching  that  occasions  this  unrest,  and  compels  me  to  re- 
fuse a  dead  faith  because  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  living 
one,  can  your  experience  decide  ?  I  know  you  think  it- 
strange  that  I  should  speak  in  this  way,  unless  you  listen 
as  one  soul  should  to  the  voice  of  another." 

At  last  he  spoke — and  how  he  spoke  !  Never  but 
once  before  that  day  had  Susan  heard  that  voice. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  strange.  I  do  forget  that  you  are 
young,  and  I  am  old.  I  can  accommodate  myself  to  the 
pressure  of  your  need.  You  need  no  apology ;  you  need 
far  more.  AVhat  do  you  mean  by  a  dead  faith  ?" 

"  Faith  in  churches,  and  creeds,  and  symbols !" 

"  Yet  you  would  have  bound  yourself  irrevocably  to 
them.  You  would  have  tortured  an  expansive  nature, 
that  was  desigued  to  grow." 

"  I  had  not  then  the  knowledge  that  they  are  not  life ; 
or  rather,  against  my  knowledge  the  most  potent  in- 
fluences arrayed  themselves.  They  were  life,  I  had  been 
taught — or  I  had  been  left  to  deduce  as  much  from  all 
that  was  taught  me — and  if  they  were  life,  I  should  cer- 
tainly have  it  in  abounding  fulness.  If  prayer  to  saints 
is  the  thing,  I  should  have  a  shrine  for  every  word,  a 
saint  for  every  thought.  But  was  not  my  God  thus 
divided  infiuitesimally  ?  Could  I  ever  lift  myself  up  in 
any  measure  towards  him,  as  all  in  all  ?  There  were  gal- 
leries, rising  tier  above  tier,  heaven  high,  filled  with  saints, 
and  I  could  not  get  above  the  topmost  range.  I  must 
sweep  them  away,  if  I  would  lookup  to  Him  .  .  .  If,  when 
Christ  gave  his  blood,  and  said,  '  Drink  ye  all  of  it,'  he 
meant  to  infuse  into  our  veins  of  heart  and  of  brain  his 
own  life — to  make  us  one  with  him,  workers  as  he  worked 
— then,  having  received  it,  I  want  the  opportunity  and 


60  GETTING    ALONG. 

sphere  which  the  reception  supposes.  I  am  not  willing 
to  halt  in  the  city  for  purposes  of  dancing,  and  feasting, 
and  compliment,  while  He  goes  up  into  the  mountain 
bearing  His  cross.  I  would  choose  to  be  slain  with  Him. 
I  would  choose  to  be  crucified." 

"  Is  there  no  vast  spiritual  pride  in  this  aspiration  ?" 

He  was  sounding  her  depth,  and  her  answer  pleased 
him,  when  she  said  impetuously  : 

"  Is  every  longing  that  proves  life  an  inch  deeper  than 
beasts  might  suspect  or  fathom,  to  be  charged  with  pride, 
sir?" 

And  he  answered,  again  interrogatively,  "  Is  there  no 
crucifixion  implied  in  the  bending  to  necessity  ?  Is  there 
no  sacrifice  in  that  concentration  of  anguish  reserved  to 
an  awakened  spirit,  in  the  conviction  that  His  Spirit 
must  be  for  a  time  bound,  and  withheld  from  action  ?" 

"  I  cannot  understand  these  things  so,  sir,"  said  Stella, 
her  voice  echoing  the  mildness  of  his,  or  subdued  by  it 
from  its  passionate  tone.  ';  The  desire  to  work  implies 
the  capacity  and  the  field,  does  it  not  ?  I  am  persuaded 
that  there  are  labors  in  which  I  may  exhaust  my  life. 
And  life  was  given  us  for  cultivation  and  exhaustion  of 
its  present  resources,  was  it  not?  I  am  certain  that  I 
can  render  some  other  service  than — " 

"  Than  that  of  Obedience  ?  Are  you  so  sure  ?  The 
very  Christ  you  seek  to  serve  WAS  Obedience.  He  was 
not  an  assenting,  but  an  obedient  man.'1 

"  Yes — obedient  to  the  penalties  of  His  mission.  What 
loyal  worker  is  not  ?  Have  you  no  more  to  say  ?" 

"  What  would  you,  young  lady  ?" 

"  Serve  Him." 

"  Wait,  then,  till  He  calls  you." 

«  Has  He  not  called  ?" 

"  Then  He  has  showed  you  the  way,  to  walk  in  it." 

"  Is  not  this  His  voice  that  will  not  let  me  rest  ?     The 


THE    SOCXD    OF    VOICES.  (51 

very  voice  that  sent  messengers  for  the  dumb  beast,  be- 
cause He  had  need  of  him." 

"  Follow,  then,  the  messenger.  Why  do  you  not  ? 
What  stranger  by  the  wayside  has  a  right  to  interfere  ? 
None  but  yourself  can  hear  the  voice.  The  voices  that 
come  from  heaven  to  chosen  souls  are  but  thunderings  to 
the  baser  sort  surrounding  them.  They  only  hear  the 
report  of  the  electric  communication.  We  cannot  inter- 
pret such  things  for  each  other.  Be  not  jash  in  your 
interpretations.  I  believe  that  you  are  sincere,  since  you 
actually  thought  of  removing  all  that  makes  life  beauti- 
ful to  youth,  for  His  sake,  which  is  certainly  the  last 
thing  that  would  be  demanded  of  you." 

"  And  you  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  me,  sir  ?"  said 
Stella,  half  turning  from  him. 

"  Nothing — unless — "  This  word  arrested  her  step,  as, 
in  silence,  she  was  about  to  go  away. 

"  Unless  you  have  some  special  gift — a  predominating 
tendency  to  some  one  kind  of  labor.  If  you  have,  my 
counsel  is.  use  it  in  the  way  that  will  tend  farthest  to 
bring  honor  on  woman  as  woman.  The  Christ  you  claim 
was  born  of  woman." 

"  And  Him  I  would  preach." 

"  And  do  you  not  recollect,  that  since  the  world  has 
stood,  that  gospel  has  been  preached  in  deeds  more  effi- 
ciently, more  honestly  and  fearlessly,  than  in  words? 
Study,  reflect,  endure.  You  are  yet  young  for  other 
service  than  this.  Perhaps  in  this  life  you  will  never  be 
sufficiently  matured  for  any  other  service.  You  would 
probably  do  more  harm  than  good  at  this  time,  if  you 
found  a  sphere  of  activity.  You  are  too  inexperienced 
to  become  an  outlaw  to  any  purpose.  You  would  be 
snared  in  the  first  trap  that  was  set  for  you  Bear  the 
cross  of  submission  till  you  are  strong  to  bear  a  heavier. 
Do  not  doubt  that  it  will  then  be  found  wanting." 


62  GETTING    ALONG. 

"  Such  as  it  is,  I  thank  you  for  your  word.  I  will  do 
what  I  can  with  it.  Good  morning,  sir." 

"  That  is  what  a  woman  calls  seeking  for  light," 
thought  Leigh  ton,  as  he  stood  watching  the  departing 
figures  of  Stella  and  Susan.  "  She  is  a  brave,  strange 
girl — but  so  far  wrong  that  there  will  be  no  getting  her 
in  the  right  way  again.  (She  is  as  dogmatic  as  the  veriest 
pedagogue  that  ever  wielded  a  birch  rody  A  tragic 
element  in  her  composition,  too.  A  very  pretty  specimen 
of  lava  sent  up  by  some  raging  volcano  of  circumstance, 
no  doubt  Fine  stuff  for  a  convent !  Too  honest  for  a 
tragedian — too  honorable  for  a  fashionist ; — too  spiritual 
for  a  mobocracy — they  would  trample  on  her  in  the  very 
first  victory  to  which  she  led  them  triumphant,  in  their 
brutish  capacity  of  oversight.  Unfit  for  use — unfit  for 
disuse ;  incapable  of  receiving  the  calm  of  the  sage,  and 
the  joy  of  the  worldling — there  is  no  hope  for  her.  She 
was  born  under  an  adverse  star,  that  girl,  and  her  doom 
is  an  eternal  frustration.  Poor  child — how  beautiful  she 
is,  she  speaks  like  a  queen,  and  looks  like  one,  every  ges- 
ture speaks  for  her." 

Susan  followed  Stella  as  she  turned  away,  and  walked 
down  side  by  side  home  with  her  to  the  cabin. 

As  they  went,  Stella  did  not  once  speak,  nor  in  any 
way  paid  heed  to  the  child,  until  they  had  come  to  the 
cabin,  when,  entering  first,  and  leading  the  way  into 
Tom's  room,  she  said,  but  in  soliloquy  as  it  seemed  : 

"  That  is  the  utmost  a  man  can  be  induced  to  say.  I 
mistook  him.  He  looked  like  a  person  who  has  thought 
and  experimented  a  good  deal,  but  he  does  not  under- 
stand inc.  '  Wait !'  He  does  not  know  the  age  .  .  . 
Susan,- 1  want  to  lie  down  here  in  the  shade  and  rest ;  sit 
where  I  can  see  you." 

Poor  Susan,  troubled  and  astonished  by  all  that  she 
had  heard,  sat  down  and  folded  her  hands.  A  Sabbath 


THE    NEW    ARRIVAL.  63 

peace  was  in  her  posture,  but  no  such  peace  was  shining 
in  her  face.  Into  the  secret  of  the  disquieted  questioner 
before  her,  she  could  not  enter.  She  was  moving  in 
another  circle — was  the  inhabitant  of  another  sphere — 
yet  was  she  not  proof  against  the  disquiet — indeed  it  in- 
fected her.  She  felt  ill  at  ease  in  Stella's  presence — 
troubled,  not  confiding  but  fearful.  Her  guest,  from 
being  the  day's  glory  and  delight,  became  its  unrest  and 
its  shadow. 

"  You  are  to  forget  all  that  I  have  said  to-day,"  said 
Stella  softly,  at  length,  laying  her  hand  on  Susan's  head, 
for  she  was  not  at  a  loss  to  understand  the  thoughtful- 
ness  and  silence  into  which  Susan  had  fallen.  "  We  are 
recommended  to  try  the  spirits,  and  Mr.  Leighton  looked 
so  spiritual  that  I  could  not  help  it.  I  never  should 
think  of  talking  in  such  a  strain  to  your  Mr.  Falcon,  if  I 
had  a  thousand  opportunities  ...  Of  course  we  make 
all  the  opportunities  we  have  ...  I  never  could  make 
one  for  such  a  talk  with  him.  Mr.  Falcon  is  a  different 
man,  and  a  very  good  man.  If  his  name  happened  to 
be  William,  everybody  would  call  him  Bill.  That  means 
he  is  a  popular  man.  I  know  very  well  I  have  made  a 
great  fool  of  myself  this  morning.  Any  woman  is  a  fool 
who  thinks  that  she  can  be  helped  out  of  such  a  strait  as 
I  felt  myself  in  an  hour  ago.  No  one  can  help  us — no 
woman  at  all  events,  and  no  man  .  .  .  except  it  may  be, 
Susan, — God  knows  what  would  become  of  us  if  we  lost 

our  faith  in  that — the  man  Jesus Who  is  that  ? 

Is  not  that  Mr.  Falcon's  voice?  ..." 

Lifting  herself  from  the  bed  on  which  she  had  thrown 
herself,  Stella  listened,  and  Susan  listened,  but  heard 
nothing  ;  but  to  satisfy  her  guest  she  went  to  the  cabin- 
door,  and  saw  Falcon  coming  up  the  beach  on  horseback, 
her  father  walking  by  his  side. 


64  GETTING   ALONG. 


XII. 

JOHN  FALCON  was  not  so  much  amazed  when  informed 
of  the  guest  in  the  cabin  as  he  might  have  been,  had  he 
not  heard  before  he  left  St.  John's,  that  Stella  Gammon 
had  gone  down  to  Dillon's. 

If  I  stated  here  in  the  beginning  of  this  chapter,  which 
shall  be  a  brief  one,  that  the  desire  to  see  her  again  had 
quite  as  much  to  do  with  the  visit,  as  its  other  and 
secondary  purpose,  to  examine  Dillon  on  the  subject  of 
removal  to  St.  John's,  I  should  not  have  wandered  hope- 
lessly from  the  real  truth  of  the  case. 

And  to  all  of  them  it  was  a  blessed  Sabbath-day.  /For 
Falcon  brought  down  with  him  for  every  one  a  blessing — 
they  were  receptive  of  the  joy  that  flowed  like  a  river 
peacefully  through  his  nature ;  a  broad  sunny  meadow, 
was  that  nature — with  the  long  grass  where  insects  might 
chirrup  and  sport,  where  the  humblest  of  field  flowers 
looked  up  to  the  sun,  where  berries  ripened,  where  great 
trees  cast  their  shadows — for  the  nature  was  peace ;  it 
had  its  own  inherent  joy,  the  joy  which  is  inevitably 
communicative  whensoever  a  receptive  life  goes  wander- 
ing through  the  meadow ;  the  winds  of  heaven,  and  the 
sunlight,  and  heat,  have  free  course  there  ;  whosoever  will 
may  see  it.  breathe  it,  and  rejoice  in  it — and  know  it  is 
the  peace  that  passes  understanding ;  the  joy  that  i.^ 
secure — because  independent  of  all  the  world  can  give  or 
take  awayy 

A  blessed  day  they  made  of  it.  For  them  the  sun 
shone  in  his  glory,  and  lighted  up  the  waves,  and  made 
the  beach  sand  sparkle; — at  the  tent-door  an  angel  had 
gone  in  and  found  a  welcome  and  refreshment. 

Mr.  Falcon  was  the  last  person  who  could  draw  from 
Stella  an  involuntary  burst  of  feeling  such  as  Mr. 


A   NEW    STUDY.  65 

Leighton  had  listened  to.  He  bore  about  with  him  no 
mark  of  painful  study.  One  could  not  discern  from  his 
manner  or  speech,  that  life  was  a  theme  that  vexed  him. 
His  attitude  was  that  of  a  manly  worker,  who  saw  before 
him  tasks  to  be  done,  and  he  did  not  spare  himself,  or 
turn  the  labor  over  to  another. 

When  he  spoke  of  the  work  in  which  he  had  been  en- 
gaged during  the  last  week,  and  narrated  some  touching 
experience  of  which  he  had  learned  in  his  explorations 
among  the  emigrants,  he  spoke  from  his  heart — his  hu- 
manity explained  itself  in  the  pathos  of  his  voice,  and  in 
the  words  of  his  narration.  High  praise  he  had  for  the 
Sisters  of  Mercy  whom  he  had  encountered  in  his  labors. 

Much  he  lauded  their  perseverance  and  courage,  and 
his  eyes  while  he  spoke  these  things  were  fixed  on  Stella. 
With  a  well-bred  show  of  interest,  intended  to  hint  at  a 
concealed  indifference  which  she  was  far  from  feeling, 
Stella  listened.  And,  as  if  to  avoid  the  appearance  of 
actual  rudeness,  compelled  herself  to  speak  occasionally. 
But  under  all  this  exterior  a  soul  was  listening  to  his 
speaking,  as  if  for  life  or  death. 

No  room  for  doubting  had  she  here.  It  was  an  en- 
franchised soul  that  spoke,  and  she,  in  bondage,  listened. 

Never,  as  he  had  said,  would  she  make  an  opportunity 
to  speak  to  him  as  she  had  done  to  others.  Whether  he 
had  been  born  into,  or  grown  into  the  condition  which 
now  was  his,  unmistakably  his,  she  did  not  question  now 
and  here.  An  awed  sense  of  the  fact  that  she  was  in 
the  presence  of  no  distorted  life,  of  no  fragment  of  a  life, 
held  her  fast.  She  could  not  escape  it.  No  broad, 
world-comprehending  system  of  belief,  like  this  which  his 
bearing  and  his  words  indicated,  had  she  ever  met  before. 
She  shrunk  back  within  herself,  silenced — conscious,  in 
the  pride  with  which  she  veiled  the  weakness  of  her 
wavering  faith  and  hope,  that  it  was  but  an  emotional 


66  GETTING    ALONG. 

pride  that  had  constrained  her  heretofore  in  so  many 
ways  and  times  to  exhibit  it.  In  her  smiling  face,  and 
gay  words,  a  passing  careless  eye  would  have  detected 
nothing  more  than  dead  lives  often  evidence.  The  ex- 
uberant health,  and  apparently  unflagging  flow  of  cheer- 
ful spirits,  seemed  ample  provision  for  defence  against 
the  dismal  dreams  of  hypochondria.  And  truly  were  so  : 
her  trouble  was  not  the  darkness  of  a  vision,  but  the  ap- 
parent inscrutableness  of  a  palpable  confusion,  a  visible 
disorder.  In  the  gay  dance  of  life  she  had  fallen  up 
against  startling  realities.  Who  could  explain  them  ? 
This  man  would  answer  with  a  smile — would  answer, 
would  smile — she  felt  assured  of  this — but  at  the  same 
time  there  was  in  her  soul  a  deep  conviction  of  another 
truth  of  which,  till  now,  she  had  not  caught  sight  since  she 
was  a  child,  and  frolicked  on  the  beach — since  as  a  young 
maiden  giving  over  her  heart  so  fondly  and  confidingly  to 
the  nun  who  taught  her,  she  had  gone  trusting  all  she 
met,  pouring  out  the  wine  of  life  upon  a  soil  where  weeds 
grew  so  abundant  that  a  serpent  found  in  their  inidst  a 
hiding-place,  and  made  a  nest  for  habitation. 


XIII. 

AND  yet  when  he  was  gone,  Stella,  excited  beyond  the 
possibility  of  sleep,  arose  from  her  bed  after  midnight, 
and,  seated  in^the  quiet  of  Tom's  chamber,  wrote  a  letter 
full  of  disquietude,  one  long  interrogatory  to  Miss  Wat- 
son. And  with  it  she  went  out  noiselessly  into  the 
moonlight. 

(The  beach  glistened  like  a  vast  bed  of  silver  in  the 
light — solemn  was  the  roar  of  the  sea — the  night  was 
full  of  awful  peace — along  the  waves  spread  a  movable 
path  of  light,  the  reflection  of  the  moon,  a  broad  highway 
meet  for  spirits^ 


THE    MIDNIGHT    MEETING.  67 

Here,  on  the  solitary  beach,  with  bared  head  she 
walked,  the  wind  tossing  her  hair  at  will,  and  night,  and 
circumstance,  and  time,  were  in  that  hour  as  nothing  to 
her. 

Leighton  in  his  study,  he  had  not  yet  retired,  saw  her. 
He  had  thought  of  her  all  day. 

He  had  not  been  quite  unmoved  by  the  words  she  had 
spoken  to  him  on  that  Sabbath  day.  Though  disposed 
to  regard  her  disquiet  as  but  another  evidence  of  the 
restlessness  and  imperfection  of  the  female  character, 
yet  above  and  beyond  this  he  felt  a  decided  interest  in 
her.  He  could  not  prevent  his  sympathies  from  extend- 
ing towards  her.  She  had  appealed  to  him  so  directly 
that,  though  she  had  to  his  mind  conclusively  proved 
her  ignorance  of  the  things  of  which  she  spoke,  she 
had  roused  him  as  he  had  not  been  roused  for  years, 
though  thrown  by  the  occupation  of  his  professor- 
ship so  continually  among  young,  inquiring  minds.  His 
sympathies  reached  towards  her  feebly,  but  certainly. 
Vivid  was  the  recollection  she  had  served  to  call  up.  of 
the  struggle  through  which  in  his  own  youth  he  had 
passed.  How  he  had  finally  conquered,  he  well  knew. 
This  recollection  inspired  him  with  a  gentler  pity  than 
he  had  felt  for  her  before. 

When  he  saw  her  walking  alone  on  the  sand  he  went 
out. 

Stella  saw  him  as  he  came  from  the  mill — she  was  ad- 
vancing towards  him — and  she  neither  stood  still  in  inde- 
cision, nor  turned  back  from  the  path,  but  steadily  went 
forward. 

'•  I  thought  I  gave  you  an  opiate  this  morning,"  when 
he  came  near,  he  said. 

"  Some  drugs  stimulate  me."  she  answered ;  "  opium 
never  tranquillizes  me.  Your  opiate,  sir,  failed  of  its 
proper  effect." 


68  GETTING   ALONG. 

"  Then  it  was  either  an  under,  or  an  over  dose ;  which, 
I  wonder  ?" 

"  You  think  the  latter,  from  my  being  here  at  this 
hour  ;  the  house  was  so  close  I  could  not  sleep." 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  what  you  said  about  the 
convent  .  .  .  did  you  actually  think  of  making  a  nun  of 
yourself?  or  was  it,  as  I  suppose,  a  figure  of  speech 
merely  implying  the  desperate  and  dangerous  strait  of 
doubt  through  which  you  were  passing  ?" 

"  I  meant  it  just  as  I  said,"  answered  Stella. 

"  And  if  you  wanted  a  church  now,  you  would  cleave 
to  Rome — is  not  that  it  ?'* 

"  Yes,  it  is  so.  I  want  something  else.  I  have 
climbed  on  in  my  way,  as  I  told  you,  disputed  at  every 
step  I  took.  I  have  gone  up  through  the  church,  using 
altar,  and  saints'  niches,  and  the  gorgeous  windows  with 
the  martyrs  painted  on  them,  for  stepping-stones,  and 
even  the  crucifix— why  was  the  spiritual  cross  made  into 
such  a  human  perversion  as  a  crucifix  ?  And  at  last,  when 
I  have  come  to  the  roof  ...  I  look  down  beneath,  and 
see—" 

"  It  is  a  dizzy  pinnacle,"  said  Mr.  Leighton  ;  "  awfully 
fearful  for  an  unbalanced  adventurer  ;  what  do  you  see  ?" 

"  The  homes  of  the  city  in  inextricable  confusion  far 
below.  Up,  above,  what  I  thought  was  heaven  when  I 
was  a  child — but  the  spiritual  heavens  are  not  there.  If 
I  fall  down  among  these  homes,  even  if  I  were  not  dashed 
in  pieces,  I  should  die — I  should  lose  my  life.  I  think 
the  slumbering  listener  who  might  have  heard  the  apostle 
preaching,  but  went  to  sleep  rather,  and  fell  from  the 
window  to  the  ground,  and  was  taken  up  for  dead,  and 
only  recovered  by  a  miracle,  means  something. 

"  Yes,  certainly,'1  answered  Mr.  Leigliton. 

"  You  would  not,  for  the  sake  of  giving  a  person  a 
mere  quiet  life,  you  would  not,  would  you,  shut  him  up 


THE    LAW    OF    GROWTH.  O» 

out  of  the  light  and  air  ?  Is  it  not  better  to  grow  ?  Is 
it  so  important  that  a  person  should  cleave  to  the  faith 
in  which  he  has  been  educated,  whether  it  answers  the 
purpose  of  his  soul  or  not  ?  Does  not  nature  assure  us 
that  the  law  of  growth  is  a  vital  law  ?  The  caterpillar 
and  acorn  assure  me.  I  long  for  growth,  this  tangled 
undergrowth  hinders  me — this  damp  darkness  is  full  of 
poison.  I  must  grow." 

"  Assuredly  you  must,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  But  these  great  trees  in  the  forest,  with  their  branch- 
es twined  and  crossed  far  above  me,  seem  to  warn  me 
that  they  will  not  let  me  through.  They  will  compel 
me,  then,  to  an  obstinate  pushing  in  some  other  direction. 
They  will  make  a  deformity  of  me.  Why  should  I  confess  ? 
I  have  no  faith  in  the  virtue  of  a  priest's  absolution  :  or 
why  should  I  pray  to  saints  ?  bead-telling,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it  ?  I  believe  nothing  in  it.  I  was  born  for  no 
such  service." 

"  No — I  perceive  that  you  are  intensely  Protestant." 

"  And  is  it  not  plain  to  you  that  I  cannot  stand  still 
where  I  am  ?  I  must  either  go  back,  and,  with  the  ut- 
most devotion,  entire  submission,  give  myself  up  to  that 
Church,  work  for  it,  live  for  it,  die  for  it,  be  absorbed  in 
it  ...  know  nothing  but  the  Church,  desire  nothing  but 
its  interests  .  .  .  love  nothing  except  according  to  its 
dictates — or,  I  must  leave  it  utterly  and  forever.  I  have 
tried  to  look  that  large  liberty  in  the  face,  but  it  awes 
me — I — I  almost  fear  it.  It  is  a  new  country  to  me, 
sir,  and  I  know  not  what  is  in  it." 

"  It  is  the  ideal  land  of  youth.  Go  not  in  thereat. 
You  are  of  a  temperament  that  needs  the  limitations  of 
the  actual,  the  positive.  Better  for  you  to  remain  in  the 
transept  than  climb  up  in  the  manner  you  have  described. 
All  that  is  required  of  you  is  manifestly  this — conformity, 
merely  conformity." 


70  GETTING   ALONG. 

"  To  what  ?"  asked  Stella. 

<(  To  what  you  know." 

"  I  know  nothing." 

"  That  the  Church  has,  in  all  ages,  afforded  protection 
and  peace  to  those  who  sought  shelter  of  her." 

"  Sir  ?" 

"  You  know  this,  do  you  not  ?  The  catechism  taught 
it  you,  and  your  experience  has  proved  it  to  be  true. 
You  evidently  know  nothing  of  the  land  that  lies  beyond 
the  borders  of  the  Church.  Now,  why  be  so  unwise  as  to 
resign  what  you  have  ascertained  for — you  cannot  tell 
what  .  .  .  Neither  can  I." 

He  paused — Stella  was  silent.  She  pondered  his 
words,  and  at  last  rousing  herself  and  looking  up  at  him, 
she  said,  almost  triumphantly  : 

"  Yes !  I  can  tell  you,  sir.  And  you,  if  you  would, 
could  you  not  tell  me  ?  But  it  matters  not — I  see  I  shall 
not — "  she  hesitated — "  get  much  good  of  you,"  she  con- 
cluded with  a  sigh. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  he,  in  spite  of  himself,  deeply  inter- 
ested in  her  words,  "  have  you  striven  to  retain  the  faith 
in  which  you  were  brought  up  ?  Since  you  began  to 
doubt  its  validity,  have  you  ever  striven  to  conquer  such 
doubts  ?" 

<;  Oh,  it  seems  to  me,  sir,  you  should  not  ask  me  that. 
It  has  cost  me  so  much  since  I  left  that  road  beaten  by 
the  passage  of  ages." 

"  You  have  renounced  it  altogether,  then  ?  You  will 
not  return  ?" 

"  I  cannot." 

Mr.  Leighton  hesitated.  "  Women,"  said  he,  at  length, 
speaking  slowly,  "  women  renouncing  the  fancies  of  faith 
hardly  know  what  they  do.  And  you,  who  seem  full  of 
poetic,  passional  impulses — it  seems  to  me  .  .  .  your 
renunciation  would  be  incredible  if  I  could  persuade  my- 


THE   MAJESTY    OF   TRUTH.  71 

self  that  you  are  fully  aware  of  it.  You  go  to  a  priest 
and  confess  your  faults,  he  counsels  you,  and  in  a  great 
name  absolves  you  from  the  penalty.  What  can  be  more 
consoling  ?"  Did  the  impatient  gesture  of  the  listening 
girl  escape  the  speaker's  eyes  ?  .  .  .  "  You  offer  up  your 
prayers  before  the  shrines  of  saints — your  heart  ascends 
to  the  abode  which  your  imagination  has  prepared  for 
them.  You  behold  them,  in  their  celestial  glory,  inter- 
ceding for  you,  and  those  you  love,  with  Him  who  is 
above  all.  What  can  be  more  beautiful  ?  You  purchase 
heaven  by  your  good  works.  It  is  yours — a  safe  invest- 
ment— you  can  count  on  the  payment  with  certainty. 
You  are,  besides,  encircled  by  guardian  angels.  Consider 
whether  all  this  enchanting  order  of  things  is  to  be  lightly 
set  aside,  ignored,  for  the  sake  of  coarse,  barren,  meagre 
fact !  for  the  things  you  see  and  handle  !  Allowing  that 
the  circle  engirdling  heaven  and  earth,  thronged  with 
beautiful  imaginings,  be  nothing  more  than  the  creation 
of  the  brain,  what  an  immense  renunciation  is  it  you  ex- 
act of  yourself — of  a  woman  !" 

"  Sir  ...  is  there  not  sufficient  splendor — for  what 
do  you  take  me  ? — is  there  not  sufficient  attraction  and 
majesty  in  simple  fact  to  satisfy  a  soul  ?  If  I  suspect 
the  validity  of  a  theory,  is  it  not  as  good  as  lost  to  me  ? 
If  I  question  the  veracity  of  a  thought,  does  it  console 
me  that  it  is  adorned,  and  has  for  centuries  been  adorned, 
with  unquestioned  beauty  ?  Is  a  woman,  necessarily,  so 
dependent  on  outward  show  of  beauty  that,  having  it  as- 
sured, she  can  quietly  submit  to  inward  and  essential  cor- 
ruptions ?  I  hold  that  the  power  which  enchains  the  soul 
is  that  which  lies  in  the  heart  of  truth.  And  in  no  shape 
it  may  choose  can  it  disguise  itself  beyond  the  detection 
of  the  eye  that  seeks  and  loves  it." 

"  You  make  little  of  the  heritage  to  which  you  were 
born,"  said  Mr.  Leigh  ton,  but  her  answer  pleased  him ; 


72  GETTING    ALONG. 

the  very  honesty  of  her  speech  roused  his  involuntary  re- 
spect. She  was  a  woman,  but  after  another  type  than 
that  against  which  all  the  sentiment  of  his  nature  spoke 
out  in  bitter  scorn.  He  fancied  that  this  girlhood  bore 
no  faint  resemblance  to  another  that  long  ago  converted 
him  for  a  brief  season  to  a  warm-blooded  humanity. 
"  But,"  he  continued,  "  you  have  narrowed  and  restricted 
your  faculties  to  that  contemplation,  when  it  is,  in  fact, 
but  one  feature  in  a  vast  and  complicated  system.  It  is 
a  stumbling-block  in  your  way.  Do  you  honestly  desire 
that  I  should  remove  it  ?'' 

"  Go  on :"  in  this  charge  was  a  full  warrant. 

"  You  have  stranded  on  the  shoal  of  the  unconditioned 
which  has  wrecked,  or  rather,  I  should  say,  proved  the 
great  hinderance  to  the  free  working  of  many  a  mind. 
The  Church  is  the  embodiment  of  an  idea — the  idea  that 
involves  the  Infinite  and  the  Absolute.  You  have  lost 
yourself  in  a  maze  where  you  may  wander  forever  in  a 
vague  consciousness  of  miserable  mistaking — why  ?  be- 
cause you  are  beyond  the  ken  of  actual  knowledge  in  that 
dominion  where  you  are.  You  have  tormented  yourself 
with  abstractions  which  were  none  the  less  fatal  to  your 
inward  peace,  and  the  harmonious  development  of  your 
nature,  but  the  more  fatal,  on  the  contrary,  because  of 
their  sensuous  arrayment.  Symbols  have  disturbed  your 
peace,  because  you  were  sufficiently  thoughtful  of  them 
to  seek  for  the  mystery  they  personated.  You  have 
iguorantly  worshipped,  and  that  you  can  do  no  longer. 
In  that  fact  I  see  the  proof  that  worship  is  no  longer 
possible  with  you.  Worship  as  the  Church  has  it,  I  mean. 
Drop  the  idea  of  the  Church  then,  altogether."  Stella 
started  in  surprise — but  in  the  next  moment  the  passing 
likeness  of  his  counsel  to  that  given  by  Sister  Theresa 
disappeared.  "  Drop  that  idea,  and  all  that  is  contained 
in  it ;  come  back  from  the  dominion  of  dreams  into  the 


MATTER    AND    SPIRIT.  73 

actual  world.  Seek  no  longer  for  infallible  truth,  content 
yourself  with  seeking  to  know  that  which  can  be  known 
— which  is  all.  Your  possessions  will  then  satisfy  you — 
for  they  will  have  substance." 

The  hour  and  the  speaker  may,  full  as  much  as  his 
words,  have  conspired  to  shake  the  soul  of  the  listener  to 
whom  these  things  were  thus  proposed. 

"  What  will  they  be  ?"  she  asked  in  great  hope.  Was 
he  not  preaching  deliverance  to  the  captive  ?  What  was 
the  truth  this  wise  man  was  advancing  that  roused  her, 
and  made  her  hope  to  shine  from  the  dark  eyes  full  of 
pleading  and  of  wonder,  turned  toward  him  ?  Into  what 
fair  new  kingdom  would  he  convey  her,  where  she  would 
be  free  from  what  she  felt  had  bound  her  quite  too  long  ? 

<;  The  amazing  glories  of  this  material  world — the 
laws  that  govern  all  being — the  science  of  nature.  Study 
these.  One  might  venture  to  predict  that  this  knowl- 
edge, fairly  ascertained,  would  lead  you  into  possession 
of  large  liberty,  and  enduring  joy,  since  you  can  possess 
these  things  if  you  know  them ;  since  no  fate  can  compel 
your  renunciation,  or  affect  your  right.  Vex  your 
righteous  soul  no  longer  with  thoughts  which  are  of  no 
value  since  they  have  for  you  no  ascertained  result. 
Your  own  mind  is  the  interpreter,  for  you,  of  the  universe. 
The  world  is  yours  because  you  know  it;  or,  it  may  be 
yours  because  it  is  possible  for  you  to  know  it  ...  But 
you  require  to  act — you  need  to  labor — and  that,  if  I 
mistake  not,  you  desire  to  do.  Seek,  theu.  and  you  shall 
find;  knock,  it  shall  be  opened  to  you;  ask,  you  shall  re- 
coive.  The  requisition,  you  perceive,  is  incessant.  Your 
energies  are  called  upon.  /  The  poverty  of  sloth  is  beyond 
the  reach  of  charities.)  Occupy  your  field,  and  cultivate 
it,  and  you  shall  fiudit  ere  long  white  with  harvests  ;  but, 
you  must  lift  up  your  eyes  to  see  them,  and  stretch  forth 
your  hand  to  gather  them  into  your  granary.  If  you 

VOL.  II.  4 


74  GETTING   ALONG. 

arc  willing  to  forsake  a  splendid,  pompous  dream  for  mere 
fact,  an  intangibility  for  a  positive  possession,  there  is 
nothing  in  the  way.  And  you  actually  resign  no- 
thing. For  you  enter  on  an  inheritance  that  is  compre- 
hensive of  all  things  the  moment  you  enter  the  dominion 
of  reality." 

Here  he  paused — and  to  himself  he  said,  "  She  can 
receive  this.  She  has  energy  of  thought,  and  of  will. 
She  will  grasp  at  it.  But  it  will  be  curious  to  observe 
the  use  she  will  make  of  the  truth.  I  think  she  is,  in 
fact,  sufficient  for  these  things.  That  she  can  forego  the 
pictorial  heavens  for  the  substantial  earth.  But  it  mat- 
ters not.  She  will  doubtless  have  a  struggle  before  she 
delivers  herself,  if  she  does  ever,  from  the  delusion  of  her 
besetting  sin." 

Stella  roused  herself  from  the  reflections  his  words  had 
occasioned.  The  agitation  of  her  face  betrayed  the  dis- 
turbance of  her  soul.  She  tried  to  speak,  but  she  said 
nothing. 

"  Are  you  able  to  receive  it  ?" 

"  It  leaves  me  very  poor." 

"  It  finds  you  so  perhaps,  it  will  not  leave  you  thus. 
Consider  what  your  possessions  really  were." 

"  But,  if  I  thought  them  worth  much." 

"  You  did  not  think  them  so ;  were  you  not  struggling 
to  be  clear  of  them?  I  have  merely  indicated  the  way 
'in  which  this  was  possible." 

"  Ah,  but  it  seems  to  me  the  most  childish  superstition 
were  better  than  this." 

"  To  fall  down  before  images  ?"  she  hesitated,  and  evaded^ 

"  Not  before  images,  but  the  idea — an  abstraction,  if 
you  call  it  so — that  is  more  satisfactory  than  the  husk 
that  contains  it.  I  do  not  complain  of  the  idea,  sir, 
but  the  substitution  that  it  finds,  and  for  which  it  is 
mistaken." 


THE    IDEA.  75 

'•  Then  I  have  nothing  for  you  clearly.  I  mistook 
you." 

"  No,  not  altogether." 

"  You  will  perceive  then,  perhaps,  that  some  fault 
must  pertain  to  the  idea,  some  imperfection  ;  and  an 
idea  to  be  adored  should  certainly  be  peerless  in  perfec- 
tions ;  it  must,  I  say,  be  in  some  way  faulty,  have  a  flaw, 
or  such  vast,  cumbrous,  ungainly  machinery  as  you  feel 
compelled  to  set  aside,  could  not  have  emanated  from  it, 
and  taken  the  place  of  it." 

"  But  it  did  not  emanate  from  the  idea." 

"  Whence  then  did  it  come  ?" 

"  It  grew  out  of  ignorance  and  incapacity  to  receive  a 
pure  idea — and  then  pride  came  in,  and  sustained  the 
substitution." 

"  Then  clearly  the  idea,  as  you  term  it,  is  in  fault — is 
insufficient,  and  more  than  that,  it  is  dangerous ;  it  leads 
into  the  veriest  foolishness  of  thought  and  act.  It  is 
deadly  error  ;  because  it  sustains  itself  at  such  an  enor- 
mous abnegation  of  right  and  duty.  An  idea  that  could  by 
any  unfortunate  measure  so  conceal  itself,  or  be  so  con- 
cealed, as  to  delude  its  victim  by  a  presentation  of  what 
was  not  it,  but  separated  by  a  heaven-wide  distance 
from  it,  is  certainly  not  an  idea  that  you  would  care  to 
sustain,  or  adore.  Deliverance  from  its  dominion  and 
subtlety  was  what  I  understood  you  to  be  seeking.  But, 
if  you  prefer  it  to  the  deliverance — of  course  it  is  all 
right  and  proper  .  .  .  There  is  no  wrong  if  you  cannot 
estimate  it." 

"  No — "  said  Stella,  clinging  to  her  thought  with  the 
grasp  of  a  drowning  person ;  while  she  spoke  with  solemn 
deliberation.  "  You  do  not,  I  think,  understand  me.  I 
cannot  live  without  the  idea,  but  I  want  it  to  be  taken 
out  from  the  place  where  I  find  it.  I  protest  against  the 
dress  they  give  it.  And  after  all,  it  may  be  well  to  have 


76  GETTING   ALONG. 

been  brought  into  such  connection  with  it  as  I  have 
been,  as  something  you  said  just  now  intimated  to  me; 
but,  I  shall  not  have  any  peace  until  I  get  rid  of  all 
these  questions  and  disputes.  And,  if  I  see  the  idea, 
it  may  perhaps  be  as  well  for  me  to  remain  where  I  am. 
I  shall  not  pray  to  the  saints,  nor  put  faith  in  things  of 
superstition.  But  I  thank  you  for  what  you  have  said, 
though  it  does  seem  terrible;  why,  it  is  impossible  to 
think  of  giving  up  all  I  have  believed  in  since  I  knew 
anything !  But  then,"  she  added  quickly,  "  you  will 
perhaps  say  I  have  never  known  anything.  Believed, 
then,  if  you  like  the  word  better.'' 

"  Still,"  said  Mr.  Leighton,  "  it  were  altogether  bet- 
ter, even  as  physicians  recommend  a  change  of  air  and 
scene  to  invalids,  it  were  better  for  you  to  quite  cease 
thinking  of  these  matters.  Go  into  another  country — 
you  greatly  need  the  change.  Take  up  the  book  of  facts 
and  things,  and  get  knowledge.  Study  into  the  relation 
of  things,  learn  the  harmony  of  the  sciences.  Grow  in 
reality ;  a  steady  tree,  that  strikes  its  branches  far  into 
the  light,  and  its  roots  deep  into  the  earth,  is  better  than 
a  sickly  plant,  that  spindles  into  the  shadowy  air,  and  is 
itself  more  a  vision  than  a  substance.  Stop  talking  about 
the  Church,  and  stop  thinking  of  it  also.  It  were  far 
better  for  you." 

"  But,  it  seems  to  me,  it  is  not  the  Church,  but  God, 
of  whom  that  would  deprive  me,"  said  Stella,  in  a  sub- 
dued tone.  "  It  is  He  whom  I  sought,  and  do  seek." 

"  And  there  we  are  again.  If  you  go  into  the  do- 
minion of  the  absolute,  you  must  be  propelled  by  means 
of  material  machinery,  which  you  will  find  inevitably  fails 
of  its  purpose.  The  powers  you  have  are  adapted  to  the 
grasp  of  the  conditioned.  You  are  happy  only  when  you 
put  them  to  their  proper  uses  ;  you  are  wretched,  you  are 
disappointed  at  every  turn,  when  you  put  them  to  a  ser- 


THE    DEMANDS    OF    SCIENCE.  77 

vice  they  were  not  designed  to  serve.  The  crying  folly 
of  the  world  is  the  use  to  which  it  compels  the  imple- 
ments in  its  hands — ignorant  foregoing  of  the  vast  patri- 
mony in  its  hands  for — for  what — tell  me  what  is  given  in 
exchange  ?" 

"  Peace,"  said  Stella,  after  some  hesitation. 

"  Which,  in  such  connection,  is  another  name  for  sloth." 
said  Mr.  Leighton.  "  Still,  if  you  call  it  peace,  and  be- 
lieve in  it,  it  is  sufficient  for  you.  But  you  desired 
activity ;  you  wanted  this  morning  some  work  to  do.  No 
branch  of  scientific  inquiry  are  you  excluded  from — the 
diligent  student  will  have  no  time  for  entertaining  ques- 
tions of  unimportant  moment;  he  will,  of  all  things, 
shrink  from  bondage  to  one  idea.  Listen  to  that,  and 
believe  it  ...  You  are  thinking  now  of  the  needful  re- 
straints of  the  Church.  Is  there  not  an  all-sufficient 
security  against  temptations  to  carnal  sins  in  the  pure 
truths  which  are  the  centre  of  natural  facts,  and  the  sum 
of  science  ?  What  mind,  besotted  by  any  sort  of  evil, 
can  nerve  itself  to  such  seeking  as  is  rewarded  with  dis- 
covery ?  The  restraints  of  the  Church  are  good  in  their 
place,  but  they  are  bonds  for  childhood,  when  compared 
with  the  rebukes  and  demands  of  science.  The  Church 
is  the  conscience  of  the  churchist — heaven  and  earth  of 
the  whole  man. ,  If  you  would  have  unity  within  your- 
self, if  you  would  have  harmony,  let  me  tell  you  you 
shall  have  it,  but  not  by  any  creed,  nor  for  any  code's 
sake." 

"  I  am  ignorant,  I  know,  in  all  these  things,"  answered 
Stella.  "  I  know  nothing  about  science.  I  have  not 
studied  far,  or  much ;  but,  tell  me,  is  that  the  only  reason, 
the  true  reason,  why  it  would  seem  such  a  desolate,  bar- 
ren world  if  I  left  out  of  it  the  Idea  of  a  Creator,  who  re- 
vealed himself  once  in  Jesus  Christ  ?  Is  that  the  reason 
why  I  should  feel  weak  and  helpless  if  I  had  not  His  ex- 


78  GETTING   ALONG. 

ample  ?  Would  life  have  such  grand  and  awful  signifi- 
cance if  I  did  not  see  Him  everywhere  present  and  active  ? 
— if  I  had  not  His  inscrutable  wisdom,  to  which  I  might 
refer  all  the  dark  things  that  trouble  my  understanding  ? 
You  have  done  me  good.  I  will  obey  your  teaching  so 
far  as  this  :  I  will  emerge  from  the  dotage  of  clmrchism  ; 
I  will  study  as  a  human  being  should ;  I  will  try  to  read 
•with  my  own  eyes  some  of  these  great  mysteries.  But 
what  you  call  the  '  Absolute,'  the  '  Unconditioned,'  the 
Infinite,  you  must  leave  me.  God  in  Christ  must  re- 
main. I  cannot  go  on  without  that  pass-word.  I  should 
distrust  the  paths  that  opened  to  me  without  it.  This, 
if  it  is  the  result,  the  first-fruit  of  an  erroneous  education, 
I  cannot  do  without.  Take  away  everything  else — the 
whole  dominion  of  angels,  I  can  spare  them — and  all  the 
beautiful  imaginings  of  poets,  and  those  of  religionists 
also — I  do  not  need  them,  I  believe;  they  have  not  done 
much  except  to  confuse  me  and  clog  the  action  of  my  in- 
tellect. But  I  cannot  do  without  the  Supreme  and 
Eternal  Idea,  and  its  revelation  in  creation  and  redemp- 
tion." 

"  Nor  would  I  have  you.  I  merely  sought  to  relieve" 
you  of  a  mistake.  Receive  the  idea,  then,  as  you  can,  if 
it  stands  not  a  gigantic  impediment  in  the  door  of  your 
mind,  keeping  out  the  sunlight  and  the  air." 

41  Nay,"  she  said,  "  it  brings  the  sunlight  and  the  air ; 
if  it  has  not,  it  will."  A  long  pause  followed  this  word. 
At  length  Leigh  ton  said  : 

"  You  promise  me,  then,  that  you  will  strike  now  into 
a  new  path,  and  make  much  of  your  life  while  its  vigor 
and  freshness  remain  ?" 

"  I  will." 

"  And  you  will  be  fearless  in  your  renunciations  ?" 

"  I  will  give  up  all  but  my  life." 

"'Peace  be  within  thy  walls,  and  plenteousness  within 


DAYBREAK   ON    THE  .COAST.  79 

thy  palaces.'  But,  recollect,  a  beggar's  notion  of  abun- 
dance differs  from  a  prince's.  Away  with  discontent  and 
pining !  The  world  is  yours,  if  you  will  take  it.  Vex 
yourself  no  longer — it  is  the  sense  of  wrong-doing  that 
makes  the  misery  of  discontent.  The  unexplained,  un- 
examined  consciousness  of  infamous  deserving,  that  stings 
the  heart  of  the  envious.  Go  no  more  to  man  or  woman 
for  strength,  or  counsel,  or  wisdom.  Your  need  has  its 
answer  and  supply,  if  you  will  take  it — no  one  can  dis- 
cover it  for  you,  or  give  it  to  you.  And  what  I  have 
now  said  to  you  is  in  itself  of  no  manner  of  use,  excepting 
as  it  can  suggest  to  you  the  real  law  of  your  being.  I 
do  not  know  it,  nor  do  you ;  but  some  word  that  I  have 
said,  if  you  will  think  upon  it,  will  suggest  all  that  you 
most  need.  If,"  he  added,  "  if  you  were  my  child,  I 
could  do  no  more  for  you — you  are  as  independent  of  me 
as  I  of  you. " 

He  said  no  more  ;  and  when  he  was  done,  Stella  only 
answered : 

"  I  thank  you." 

Until  daybreak  she  remained  there  on  the  beach,  rest- 
less as  the  ever-moving  waves,  walking  up  and  down  the 
sand,  thinking  over  all  that  she  had  heard — striving  with 
herself,  and  making  daring  resolutions — recalling  to  mind 
the  fact,  and  now  and  then  staying  herself  upon  it,  that 
this  man  had  not,  in  all  he  said,  in  all  his  exhortation, 
startling  as  his  words  at  first  had  seemed,  not  once  had 
he  proposed  a  thought  that  appeared  now  as  an  obstruc- 
tion to  the  fulfilment  of  her  desire  to  labor  in,  amongst, 
and  for  her  fellows.  Indeed,  the  very  fact  that  he  would 
narrow  her  sphere,  and  curb  her  thoughts,  seemed  to 
necessitate  all  activity  of  charities,  to  call  her  to  exer- 
tion in  whatever  avenue  of  social  life  she  chose  to  enter. 

By  daybreak  she  had  come  to  some  new  conclusions ; 
the  long  meditation  in  that  solemn  solitude  had  done  her 


80  GETTING    ALONG. 

good — it  bad  at  least  delivered  her  from  one  idea  and  given 
her  instead,  many. 

She  waited  here  for  morning,  alone.  Shortly  after  he 
had  spoken  the  woVds  last  recorded,  Mr.  Leighton  left  her 
and  went  his  way ;  but  not  to  slumber,  nor  to  work  at 
his  desk,  nor  to  indulge  in  quiet  contemplation. 

Had  Susan  gone  up  to  the  mill  that  morning  before 
she  set  out  with  her  friend  for  Harlem,  where  Stella  was 
to  take  the  St.  John's  stage,  she  would  have  found  no 
entrance.  Yet  Mr.  Leighton  was  there,  and  wakeful,  and 
in  his  heart  a  thought  was  throbbing. 


XIV. 

WE  left  the  family  of  Mr.  Tree  in  a  sad  condition  in 
regard  to  worldly  fortunes.  No  event  occurred  to  prevent 
the  progress  of  the  tide  that  now  bore  down  upon  them. 
Credit  and  reputation  were  gone.  Not  only  the  inven- 
tory was  completed,  but  the  sale  of  the  household  goods 
took  effect,  for  Mr.  Tree  was  determined  that  nothing 
should  be  reserved  or  kept  back  for  the  comfort  of  a 
household  so  dishonored,  from  the  claims  of  the  office 
which  Mortimer  Maurice  had  despoiled. 

A  little  house  was  taken  for  the  family  in  an  obscure 
quarter  of  St.  John's ;  and  Will  began  his  writing,  and 
Lucia  her  own  peculiar  work.  The  motive  which  im- 
pelled her  was  indeed  quite  different  from  that  which  had 
induced  her  to  labor  before  the  fall  of  the  family ;  but 
it  was  a  not  less  holy  motive.  Instead  of  aiding  Vane, 
which  had  been  her  purpose,  she  had  now  her  father's 
and  mother's  comfort  in  view.  The  artist  could  not  be 
strengthened  in  his  purpose,  nor  aided  in  his  foreign  aim, 
by  any  help  of  hers ;  the  sphere  of  her  effort  might  be 
lowlier,  but  it  was  holier  than  before. 


THE    TREES    AGAIN.  81 

And  still  she  thought  of  Vane,  of  the  struggles  he  had 
made,  of  the  difficulties  he  had  met,  which  could  not 
baffle  him.  Sometimes  these  thoughts  were  not  wholly 
free  from  envy ;  but  thinking  of  his  career  she  gained 
strength  also.  What  was  to  hinder  her  following  in  that 
same  career  ?  He.  himself,  esteemed  her  pictures  of 
some  worth ! 

True  to  his  first  impulse,  Will  has  Rosa's  child  in  his 
support — she  lives  in  the  house  with  them.  But  Morti- 
mer Maurice  and  his  wife  are  in  more  pestilential  quar- 
ters, left  to  their  own  fate,  it  would  seem,  and  no  one  can 
tell  what  will  become  of  them.  But  there  is  a  heart  that 
bleeds  for  them,  and  an  eye  that  is  mindful. 

Mr.  Tree,  at  home,  assists  Will  in  the  writing  he  has 
from  the  office  of  the  law  partners,  whose  clerk  and  stu- 
dent he  is ;  and  Will  himself  works  day  and  night,  and 
is  happy.  As  yet,  there  has  been  no  fresh  explosion  in 
the  household.  Mrs.  Tree  is  faithful  to  her  vows  in  as 
far  as  this,  she  shares  her  husband's  fortunes  still ;  but 
she  pines  for  "  sympathy"  which  no  one  has  the  time  to 
extend  ;  and  she  is  afflicted  overmuch  with  neuralgia,  and 
so  with  her  the  days  "  drag  their  weary  length  along;" 
and  for  her  eye  the  "  slime  of  the  serpent  is  over  them 
all."  Newport  and  Saratoga  are  beyond  her  reach,  and 
she  shuts  herself  up  in  her  room  and  laments ;  for  no 
breath  of  the  air  more  fresh  than  any  sea-breeze  ever  was, 
and  more  reviving,  floats  along  the  scorching  desert  of 
her  being,  and  not  a  drop  of  the  water,  whose  constant 
flow,  and  purity,  and  brightness,  communicate  the  health 
no  mineral  water  gives,  not  a  solitary  drop  of  this  water, 
I  say,  falls,  or  shall  ever  fall,  on  her  parched  tongue. 

Pucelli,  the  Italian,  of  whom  Lucia  had  received  her 
first  instructions  in  drawing,  was  himself  a  wretched 
daubist,  but  he  had  in  his  gallery  a  collection  of  admir- 
able paintings;  and  upon  his  table  the  student,  who 
4* 


82  GETTING   ALONG. 

sought  to  learn  the  art  of  engraving,  or  of  drawing,  or 
painting,  found  all  the  requisite  aids.  And  in  Pucelli 
he  found  a  theorist  and  master,  who  understood  the  rules 
of  art  sufficiently  to  impart  them  to  young  students. 
Though  in  practice  he  was  execrable,  in  precept  he  was 
thoroughly  prepared  and  disposed  to  communicate  to 
others  of  his  knowledge,  for  what  he  called  a  reasonable 
consideration. 

He  bore  about  him  all  the  outward  marks  of  prosperi- 
ty. The  embroidery  of  his  velvet  cap  was  untarnished — 
his  dressing-gown  was  that  of  the  exquisite — his  mous- 
tache was  curled — his  person  redolent  of  sweetest  per- 
fumes. He  was  the  most  prosperous  of  quacks,  the  most 
successful  of  impositions.  He  had  begun  his  career  as  an 
artist — had  been  a  portrait  painter,  a  landscape  painter, 
and  an  historic  painter,  but  had  failed,  and  well-nigh 
starved  in  each  capacity,  until  he  set  up  for  a  teacher, 
and,  by  plodding  and  patience,  came  into  possession  of 
one  picture  after  another ;  then  he  turned  showman — 
made  a  fortune  by  his  exhibitions — and  had  now  settled 
down  in  his  present  capacity ;  and  his  school  was  making 
a  noise,  and  acquiring  a  reputation. 

To  this  school  went  Lucia  Tree,  with  the  purpose,  for 
this  was  the  privilege  of  all  who  had  been  pupils,  of  mak- 
ing a  copy  of  a  picture.  Having  entered  on  this  study 
with  zeal  and  determination,  she  would  pause  at  no  half 
achievement. 

But,  as  yet,  she  had  met  with  slight  encouragement  in 
her  vocation.  She  was  young,  and  unskillful ;  and  the 
works  she  sought  to  do  were  the  trifles  that  grew  without 
an  effort  from  the  hands  of  those  accustomed  to  such 
labors.  Those  looking  for  workmen  would  ask  for  swift 
hands,  that  could  throw  off  results  almost  spontaneously 
— who  were  known  as  designers ;  and  Lucia's  work  was 
slow,  and  she  had  acquired  no  reputation ! 


THE    ARTISTS    IN    THE    GALLERY.  83 

One  day,  when  she  went  into  Pucelli's,  to  look  at  the 
picture  which  she  had  resolved  on  attempting — for,  after 
many  fruitless  endeavors  in  other  directions,  it  had  be- 
come apparent  to  her  that  she  must  acquire  some  reputa- 
tion before  her  labor  would  meet  with  adequate  reward, 
as  she  stood  before  the  painting,  Vane,  who  had  gone 
into  the  room  before  her,  making  a  slow  circuit  of  the 
gallery,  at  length  approached  her. 

When  she  entered  the  room  no  one  was  visible,  and 
she  thought  herself  alone ;  and,  before  he  came  to  her, 
she  was  so  surrounded  by  her  own  thoughts,  that,  had  the 
room  been  crowded  with  people,  she  would  have  been 
quite  as  unconscious  as  now  of  Vane.  The  greatness  of 
what  she  had  undertaken  seemed  to-day  as  for  the  first 
time  before  her ;  the  chances  of  success  appeared  never 
before  so  doubtful,  her  power  never  so  weak.  Repeated 
failures,  and  return  of  her  unpretending  work  upon  her 
hands,  had  disheartened  her ;  the  expenses  that  would  be 
incurred  by  the  necessary  outlay,  in  order  that  the  larger 
work,  which,  perhaps,  would  prove  a  total  failure,  might 
be  commenced,  was  not  a  good  foundation  for  very  sub- 
stantial hopes.  She  could  only  make  way  against  these 
disheartening  reflections  by  the  force  of  the  moral  obli- 
gations, sense  of  which  had  energized  her  for  effort  in 
the  beginning.  She  could  not  leave  Will  to  struggle 
alone.  She  could  not  disappoint  her  father,  after  all  her 
boastful  defiance  of  fortune.  She  must  make  new  trials, 
and  be  brave  and  constant  in  her  efforts.  And  here  she 
thought  of  Vane. 

And  just  here  came  his  voice.  Impulsively,  Lucia 
turned  as  she  heard  it — the  voice  was  so  near,  and  she 
was  so  surprised ;  another  moment's  reflection  would  have 
led  her  to  draw  her  veil,  and  leave  him  to  interpret  the 
act,  rather  than  he  should  see  how  disturbed  she  was  and 
had  been. 


84  GETTING    ALONG. 

The  reflection  was  an  instant  too  late.  Vane  had 
seen,  and  was  struck  by  what  he  saw;  and,  after  a  few 
words  of  more  formal  address,  he  observed,  "  I  received 
the  parcel  of  drawings  you  returned  me,  Miss  Tree." 

"  I  had  no  safe  place  for  them,  as  I  said  in  the  note," 
replied  Lucia.  "  We  have  moved  from  our  old  home 
since  I  saw  you." 

"  And  I  have  been  very  nearly  moved  too,"  said  Vane ; 
"  but  I  have  put  off  Italy  now  for  another  year's  consid- 
eration." 

"  How  could  you  do  it  ?"  asked  Lucia  quickly ;  but 
the  sudden  and  strange  light  that  flitted  over  her  face, 
which  was  not  a  smile,  and  which  certainly  was  not  gloom 
and  disappointment,  did  not  escape  him  ;  he  heard  what 
it  said  more  truly  than  he  did  hear  her  words,  and  not 
one  of  them  escaped  him. 

"  Oh,"  said  he  pleasantly,  "  I  had  a  young  friend,  an 
artist,  too,  whom  I  wanted  to  have  in  sight  a  little  long- 
er; and  then,  besides,  I  am  in  no  such  desperate  haste 
for  Italy,  after  all.  Thdre  is  no  danger  that  my  enthu- 
siasm will  not  still  be  at  a  white  heat,  even  if  I  wait  a 
year  or  two  longer.  But  I  have  put  a  limit  on  my  am- 
bition. I  have  done  painting  houses,  and  taken  to  can- 
vas. And  I  have  a  quiet  little  room,  two  or  three  feet 
square,  with  a  good  sky-light ;  and  there  I  daub  away — 
you  should  see  me  !" 

Unless  he  wad  blind  as  a  bat,  he  read  in  Lucia's  face, 
from  which  every  particle  of  disturbance  had  vanished, 
that  she  would  like  very  well  to  comply  with  that  duty 
he  spoke  of. 

"Where  are  you  living  now  ?"  he  asked. 

Lucia  told  him. 

"  That  is  a  long  way  apart  for  two  artists  to  -live," 
said  he  ;  "  but  your  brother  is  with  you  still  ?" 

When  Lucia  replied,  he  said  : 


DISCOURAGEMENTS.  85 

"  No  one  is  to  see  my  picture  until  I  return  from  Italy, 
if  ever  I  go." 

«  But  you  will  go  !" 

"  I  'm  not  so  sure  of  it.  Maybe  I  can  find  at  home 
all  that  Italy  would  give  me.  Perhaps.  If  you  will 
come  down  some  day  with  your  brother  to  my  room,  I 
can  show  you  what  I  have  been  doing." 

"  Oh  yes — we  will  come.     I  long  to  see  it  so." 

"  Do  you  ?  I  like  to  hear  you  say  that.  But  you  are 
an  artist  as  well  as  I ;  what  are  you  doing  at  present  ?" 

The  self-depreciative  word  on  Lucia's  lips  was  not 
uttered.  His  self  reliant  buoyancy  of  spirit  had  in  some 
manner  sufficiently  communicated  itself  to  her  to  make 
her  hopeful  and  strong  again — and  the  sympathy  which 
laborers  seek  she  sought  of  him. 

"  I  am  trying  to  work,"  said  she. 

"  And  how  do  you  make  out  ?"  he  asked,  frankly  and 
instantly. 

"  Not  well.  Nobody  seems  to  think  me  a  very  great 
genius.  I  have  tried  shop-men,  book-men,  and  every- 
body, it  seems  to  me." 

"  That  is  the  way  of  it,"  said  Vane,  half  laughing,  yet 
there  was  a  softening  shadow  in  his  eyes ;  "  but  you  are 
not  to  give  it  up  with  trying.  You  must  do  what  you 
set  out  to  do,  you  know,"  and  he  rapidly  named  several 
shop-men — had  she  tried  all  these  ? 

Yes — and  they  had  nothing  for  her  to  illustrate — no- 
body wanted  designs  for  anything. 

"  If  I  should  go  home  with  you,  would  you  show  me 
what  you  have  done,"  he  asked. 

"  I  would  be  so  glad  to  show  you,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  I  thank  you  for  that.  But  why  are  you  stand- 
ing here  before  this  picture  ?" 

No  hesitation  made  Lucia  in  replying  : 

"  I  did  not  know  what  else  to  do — and  I  was  afraid  to 


86  GETTING   ALONG. 

stop  working  for  fear  I  might  lose  some  chance— and  so 
I  thought  I  would  make  a  copy  of  this,  and  then  perhaps 
some  one  would  see  it  and  buy  it,  or  else  give  me  some 
other  work  to  do." 

"  But  it  would  take  you  months  to  paint  that  picture." 

"  I  know  that.  But  that  would  be  better  than — I 
know  not  what  to  do." 

"  Oh  well,  we  will  never  be  quite  so  foolish  as  that.  I 
know  some  good  fellows.  But  perhaps  you  had  rather 
fight  your  own  way  than  be  helped  along  ?  I  had  an  offer 
of  a  patron  myself  to-day.  But  I  did  not  think  much 
of  it.  When  I  want  a  patron  I  will  hunt  up  a  man  whose 
house  needs  a  new  coat  of  paint — when  it  comes  to  art, 
I  must  be  let  alone.  But  you  must  see  the  difference 
between  a  patron  and  the  offer  of  an  artist  to  help  his 
fellow." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  of  help,"  said  Lucia.  "  I  am  try- 
ing to  work  for  a  living — it  is  very  different  with  me 
from  what  it  is  with  you." 

"  Is  it  ?  But  it  is  a  good  fortune  we  both  have,  is  n't 
it  ?  only  you  must  not  spoil  it  by  troubling  yourself 
about  three  or  four  yards  of  canvas  yet  awhile.  I  know 
about  your  sketches.  See  !  I  have  a  poem  this  minute 
that  I  have  to  illustrate  for  a  magazine — listen,  and  I 
will  read  it  to  you — tell  me  how  many  good  points  there 
are  in  it  for  sketches,  and  we  will  see  if  we  can  agree 
about  it." 

It  was  a  poem  of  some  length,  and  very  striking  in  its 
scenery.  Lucia  listened. breathlessly  while  Vane  read  it; 
when  he  finished  it  she  told  him  the  pictures  that  might 
be  drawn  from  it,  and  the  points  best  fitted  for  illustration. 
He  listened  attentively ;  when  she  had  spoken,  he  said  : 

"  Upon  my  word  you  shall  do  the  work,  then  !  1 
looked  the  thing  over,  and  could  make  nothing  of  it — 
you  have  seen  through  it  in  a  moment.  You  will  do 


THE    COMPACT.  87 

better  with  allegory  than  I.  Make  the  sketches  if  you 
will,  and  you  can  come  down  with  your  brother,  and  we 
will  have  a  talk  about  it — and  I  will  show  you  the  pic- 
ture. If  you  do  the  work — why  it  is  yours  of  course. 
Don't  say  a  word — you  are  the  only  friend  I  have  here — 
and  the  only  artist  that  I  have  any  patience  with." 

Lucia  folded  the  paper,  and  retained  it — the  manner 
of  her  doing  it  said  all  for  her ;  but  she  seemed  to  think 
there  was  need  for  a  formal  expression  of  what  was  in 
her  mind,  and  she  tried  to  say  it — that  she  was  grateful 
to  him  for  his  kindness,  that  she  accepted  it  as  she  would 
have  wished  him  to  do  had  she  attempted  to  aid  him — 
that  there  was  a  reason  why  she  must  labor,  as  he  doubt- 
less knew,  and  other  words,  which  he  heard,  and  connect- 
ed, and  understood,  not,  however,  because  they  were  so 
clearly  spoken  that  he  could  not  avoid  it. 

"  That  is  all  right,'1  said  he,  extending  his  hand,  which 
she  accepted  instantly  as  a  token  of  their  friendly  com- 
pact. "  You  make  me  think  of  my  mother.  You  will 
see  her  in  the  picture  I  have  painted.  I  know  how  well 
pleased  she  would  be  to  know  I  had  such  a  friend  as  you. 
Sometimes  I  think  that  you  are  better  than  Italy  for  me. 
Do  you  know  why  ?  Because  you  give  me  what  I  was  al- 
ways thinking  to  find  in  Italy.  To  be  sure  I  was  think- 
ing of  galleries  of  pictures,  and  the  great  works  of  artists, 
and  I  don't  suppose  you  will  ever  do  anything  quite  as 
great ;  and  I  have  seen  you  so  few  times  I  am  afraid  you 
will  call  me  very  bold,  but  I  cannot  help  thinking  of 
you;  you  have  done  me  a  great  deal  of  good,  without 
knowing  it,  I  suppose ;  I  hope  what  I  say  don't  offend 
you.  You  may  think  me  strange  to  talk  so  to  you — 
but  I  do  not  say  it  because  I  am  an  artist,  or  think  I 
am,  and  so  presume  to  talk  bold  things  to  young  ladies 
that  other  gentlemen  would  not  dream  of  saying.  I  hope 
you  understand  me." 


88  GETTING   ALONG. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lucia,  quite  as  earnestly  as  he  had  spoken, 
"•  I  think  I  do." 

"  And  then  you  know  why  I  am  not  in  such  a  hurry 
about  Italy.  I  think  if  I  had  gone  there  a  year  ago,  as 
I  thought  of  doing,  I  should  not  have  seen  nearly  as 
much  as  I  should  if  I  went  now,  or  a  year  from  now.  It 
seems-to  me  as  if  I  had  grown  every  way  since  I  saw  you. 
Does  that  sound  strange — can  you  understand?" 

"  Yes,  I  understand,  I  think — but  it  sounds  strange. 
Willie  sometimes  says  things  like  it — not  the  same,  of 
course,  for  he  's  not  an  artist,  and  never  thinks  of  Italy ; 
but  he  says  what  comes  to  the  same  thing,  and  it  makes 
me  happy  to  hear  you  say  so,  for  I  did  not  dare  think 
I  was  of  so  much  use  in  the  world." 

"  So  you  see,"  said  Vane,  "  the  little  I  can  do  for  you 
with  those  fellows,  the  printers  and  shop-keepers,  isn't 
much  when  compared  with  what  you  give  me.  So  many 
new  ideas,  and  all  that." 

"(Ideas  !  I  never  have  any!  it  is  Stella  Gammon 
that  has  the  ideas !  oh  dear,  no  !  I  never  had  an  ideavj} 

"  Sometimes  folks  give  to  others  what  they  don't  have 
for  themselves,  you  know.  Well,  we  '11  never  quarrel 
about  that.  You  say  William  never  thinks  of  going  to 
Italy,  but  you  do  I  am  sure." 

"  I !  no,  I  never  did  !  I  go  to  Italy  !  Dear  me,  I  was 
going  to  say  I  shduld  be  glad  if  I  was  quite  s$e  that  I 
should  always  stay  at  home." 

"  But  maybe  some  day  you  '11  be  tired  of  staying  at 
home;  or  something  or  other  may  turn  up,  who  knows? 
so  that  you  can  go  to  Italy  as  well  as  such  crowds  of 
stupid  and  vulgar  people  as  do  go  every  year.  Who 
knows,  now  ?  I  think  it  would  be  the  country  for  you ; 
yet  it  makes  not  so  much  difference,  after  all — you  will 
have  the  best  country  in  the  world  with  you  wherever 
you  go." 


WORK   AND    PAY.  89 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  tell  what  you  are  talking  about,"  said 
Lucia,  perplexed,  and  earnest.  !'  It  is  not  always  the  best 
country.  No,  I  assure  you !" 

"  Is  it  not  ?  It  would  take  you  a  great  while  to  make 
me  believe  that.  You  must  not  try  to  prove  it  to  me  .  .  . 
Do  you  not  know,  it  is  not  what  folks  think  they  see 
that  makes  a  beautiful  country?  it 's  what  they  feel.  And 
that  is  the  very  reason  that  there  are  happy  people  and  un- 
happy people  everywhere.  My  friend,  the  artist  I  spoke 
to  you  about,  would  be  happy  in  Labrador  or  Guinea, 
as  well  as  in  Italy.  Enough  sight  better  oif  than  some 
people  that  put  up  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Peter's  in 
Rome,  or  than  some  others  in  Florence,  who  live  there  in 
splendor,  (fie  carries  the  most  beautiful  scenery  in  the 
world  about  with  him  in  his  heartland  whatever  he 
paints  is  sure  to  have  a  glory  around  it,  every  whit  as 
good  as  the  old  masters  painted  over  the  heads  of  the 
Virgin  and  the  apostles.  He  is  a  wonderful  fellow,  my 
friend  the  artist." 

"  Who  is  he?"  asked  Lucia;  wondering  on  account  of 
that  artist. 

"  You  shall  see  him,  some  day.  I  promise  to  intro- 
duce him  to  you,  when  you  get  a  reputation  of  your 
own." 

Lucia  shrunk  back  from  the  thought,  abashed — and  by 
no  means. so  well  pleased  as  she  might  have  been. 

"What?  you  do  not  want  a  reputation  ?"  exclaimed 
Vane,  apparently  surprised,  but  in  heart  well  pleased. 
"  You  will  be  sure  to  get  it  then.  You  will  have  to 
quit  work  before  you  begin." 

"  I  think  there  is  not  so  much  danger  ...  all  I  want 
is  work  that  pays." 

"  Oh,  what  a  base  motive,"  said  Vane ;  but  he  laughed 
when  he  said  it,  and  evidently  had  no  idea  of  turning  on 
his  heel  contemptuously,  leaving  her  to  herself  after  such 


00  GETTING   ALONG. 

an  acknowledgment.  "  Don't  you  know  that  genius  and 
poverty  go  hand  and  hand,  and^fame  pronounces  tho 
marriage  service  ?'^~ 

"  That's  a  sure  sign  that  I  shall  not  be  married  by 
fame,  for  I  have  n't  the  genius ;  and  besides,  I  am  going 
to  make  a  fortune." 

"  Oh,  what  will  my  friend  the  artist  think  of  you  ?  I 
am  greatly  afraid  you  will  never  be  presented  !" 

At  this  Lucia,  whose  eyes  had  been  riveted  to  the  pic- 
ture before  her,  looked  quickly  towards  Vane,  as  if  about 
to  expostulate ;  as  if  she  would  utter  some  sort  of  defence 
that  should  bolster  up  what  good  opinion  he  might  have  of 
her — but  as  she  looked,  she  knew  there  was  no  need  that 
she  should  say  it ;  they  understood  each  other  ;  and  so 
she  merely  remarked : 

"  I  must  go  home  and  begin  this  work.  I  thank  you 
so  much  for  it." 

"  And  I  was  going  your  way,"  said  Vane,  following 
her.  "  But  you  must  promise  me  one  thing  ;  there  are 
heaps  of  work  to  do,  and  you  will  very  soon  have  more 
than  you  want.  I  wish  that  you  would  promise  me  one 
thing." 

"  What  is  it,  Mr.  Vane  ?" 

"  That  you  will  never  put  on  a  sober  face,  and  work 
yourself  to  death,  as  if  there  was  nothing  else  to  be 
thought  of.  There  is  time  enough  for  a  good  deal  of 
work,  and  a  great  deal  of  play  ^besides — and  more  than 
that,  there  's  some  missionary  work  you  ought  to  do,  being 
woman.  The  moment  you  show  a  sign  that  looks  as  if 
you  intended  to  go  out  of  the  world  in  a  hurry,  I  shall 
raise  such  a  hue  and  cry,  that  it  will  be  more  than 
you  can  do  to  find  a  line  of  work — or  a  pencil  to  draw 
with.  QVill  you  promise  to  have  a  little  regard  for  your 
duty  to  your  neighbor,  and  live,  for  his  sake,  as  long  as 
you  can  ?"-- 


VANE'S  FRIEND,  THE  ARTIST.  91 

"  Of  course  I  will  promise ;  how  can  I  help  it,  Mr. 
Vane,"  said  Lucia,  laughing. 

"  Oh,  you  might  help  it,"  said  Vane,  in  a  more  serious 
tone.  "  People  make  a  virtue  of  forgetting  promises  ex- 
torted from  them  ;  besides,  they  never  hold  in  law,  I  be- 
lieve. It  would  make  precious  little  difference  what  I 
said  about  you,  six  months  from  now ;  but  I  shall  stay 
and  see  it  out.  You  will  have  a  reputation,  because,  as 
I  said  before,  you  cannot  help  it.  You  will  have  to  work 
if  you  want  pay  ;  and  if  you  work,  why  all  the  rest  is  just 
a  natural  consequence.  Then  you  will  be  ambitious,  I 
am  afraid — you  will  want  to  make  a  fortune  for  every- 
body you  ever  heard  of.  And  that  is  the  reason  that  I 
fear.  (L  could  bear  to  see  some  women  go  into  the  harness. 
— it  is  a  good  place  for  them,  but  I  had  rather  not  see 
you  go." 

"  It  will  be  a  great  deal  better  for  me,  though,  Mr. 
Vane.  I  will  not  overwork  myself,  I  promise  you  !" 

"  But  the  difficulty  is,  people  never  know  when  they 
overwork  themselves  till  the  mischief  is  done." 

"  I  can  ask  my  neighbor  to  tell  me,  then,"  said  Lucia. 

"  But  will  you  believe  him  ?"  asked  Vane 

"  Yes,  I  promise  that,  too." 

"  Well  now,  my  friend,  the  artist !  I  introduce  you  to 
yourself  this  moment.  What  I  said  in  the  beginning  I 
repeat,  I  know  of  only  one  artist :  yourself,  and,  God 
bless  you  !  I  think  you  know  what  it  means  to  be  a  friend. 
Is  this  your  house  ?  is  your  father  in  ?" 

When  Lucia  told  him  that  he  was  usually  in  at  that 
hour,  Vane  paused'  a  moment  longer,  revolving  his 
thought  in  his  mind,  and  looking  at  it  with  his  keen 
sight.  Then  he  spoke  out  in  his  manly  way  : 

"  It  is  a  serious  thing  for  me  to  form  a  friendly  com- 
pact with  any  one.  I  do  it  in  solemn  earnestness.  I 
suppose  you  feel  the  same  about  it  ?  If  you  will  show 


5>.-5  GETTING   ALONG. 

me  in  to  your  father,  I  should  like  to  tell  him  what  we 
have  been  talking  about.  He  might  think  it  strange — 
and  I  know  how  men  feel  about  such  things.  I  want 
him  to  know  how  I  came  to  be  a  house-painter,  and  maybe 
he  would  like  to  come  down  and  see  my  picture  some 
day ;  I  would  be  glad  to  have  all  your  family  see  it ;  but 
I  have  not  shown  it  to  any  person  yet.  If  your  father 
is  willing,  I  could  come,  sometimes,  and  tell  you  what 
I  am  doing,  and  see  how  you  get  along.  We  might  help 
each  other  very  much.  It  would  be  pleasant  for  me.  I 
never  had  a  secret  in  my  life.  It  would  harm  us  if  we 
made  this  a  secret.  I  would  rather  say  to  you  this  min- 
ute, good-bye  forever.  Do  you  think  your  father  would 
understand  me  ?" 

"  Come  in,"  said  Lucia,  "  we  will  see.  I  think  that 
you  can  make  him  understand.  I  am  sure  I  understand 
you." 

"  You  of  course  do — but  men  are  different — and  you 
are  an  artist  besides,  and  a  woman.  Of  course  you  would 
understand." 

"  Don't  call  me  names,"  said  Lucia,  leading  the  way 
into  the  house. 

XV. 

Irj'the  twilight  of  the  day  on  which  they  looked  for 
him,  came  Silsey  to  the  Elms. 

Violet  had  hushed  her  baby  to  sleep,  and  was  sitting 
by  her  side,  watchful  and  expectant.  Miss  Watson, 
meanwhile,  contemplated  the  heavenly  bodies  as  they  ap- 
peared one  after  another  in  the  darkening  sky.  Her 
face  was  sad  and  thoughtful — her  whole  attitude  was  sig- 
nificant of  greatly-depressed  spirits.  She  was  not  calm 
— there  was  not  such  composure  in  her  mind  as  her  face 
indicated  ;  the  least  noise  startled  her.  The  messenger 


SILSEV'S    ARRIVAL.  93 

who,  during  the  last  week,  had  come  down  to  her,  night 
by  night,  who  had  conveyed  with  him  back  to  St.  John's 
the  papers  over  which  she  had  labored,  hour  after  hour, 
and  sometimes  until  day-break,  had  not  yet  come.  She 
was  anxious  and  fearful,  in  spite  of  all  her  effort  to  rise 
above  anxiety  and  fear. 

At  this  hour  Silsey  came. 

Before  the  baby  fell  asleep,  Violet  had  drawn  the 
cradle  towards  the  window,  and  so  placed  herself  that 
she  could  not  fail  to  see  the  approach  of  whoever  came 
up  to  the  Elms,  and  when  Silsey  appeared  above  the  brow 
of  the  hill,  and  advanced  along  the  winding-path  that 
led  through  beds  of  flowers,  she  had  flown  from  her  place 
by  the  cradle-side,  to  meet  him. 

Miss  Watson,  seeing  Violet's  swift  flight,  and  compre- 
hending it,  rose  also  and  went  to  the  door. 

Are  you  asking  how  Silsey  came,  and  why  ? 

Behold  him. 

Violet  stands  near  while  he  looks  down  into  the  cradle 
depths  upon  the  pearl  that  lies  there.  Violet  sees  the 
tear  that  falls  upon  the  baby's  face,  and  glistens  ou  it  like 
a  diamond  .  .  .  Diamonds  on  pearls  !  treasure  on  treas- 
ure !  was  ever  treasure  like  hers  ? 

Violet  observes,  how  can  she  help  observing  it,  that 
Silsey's  eyes  follow  her  wherever  she  goes,  that  he  smiles 
on  her  as  he  did  when  his  smile  first  won  her  heart — it 
is  the  self-same  smile  !  she  whispers  to  herself,  in  a  voice 
that  trembles  with  joy.  But  she  sees  more.  That  he 
is  jaded  and  worn  with  toil,  that  he  is  pale,  that  he 
stoops  as  he  used  not  to  do,  that  his  eyes  are  larger  and 
brighter  than  they  ever  were  before  ;  and  her  heart  sinks 
and  flutters.  Could  all  this  change  have  taken  place  in 
the  short  time  of  their  separation  ?  was  it  possible  that 
it  could  have  been  going  on  before  that  time,  and  she  not 
know  it  ?  But  she  smiles  again,  and  is  comforted  and 


94  GETTING   ALONG. 

believing,  when  Miss  Watson  says  it  is  because  he  has 
pined  for  his  children ;  that  the  country  is  as  good  for 
him,  and  will  serve  him  as  kind  a  turn  as  it  has  them  ; 
and  her  house,  small  though  it  is,  shall  give  him  room  ; 
that  Violet  must  not  yet  go  back  to  the  city,  but  she  shall 
return  with  him  when  he  returns ;  and  so,  explaining  her 
own  argument,  she  claims  them  both  for  her  guests. 

And  more    .    .    .    hear  him. 

He  tells  her — no  ear  but  hers  to  hear — oh,  joy  and 
glory  of  that  solitude  ! — that  he  never  knew  how  dear  she 
was  to  him  till  she  deserted  him,  so  long — for  it  has 
seemed  a  long  and  weary  time  since  she  went  away — and 
that  he  thanks  God  for  the  air,  and  light,  and  quiet,  which 
have  wrought  such  blessed  change  in  her  and  their  child  ! 
That  he  has  heard  her  voice  singing  in  his  heart  during 
all  their  absence  !  He  says  this,  not  in  wild  and  extrav- 
agant language,  nor  in  cold  and  careless  words,  but  his 
arm  is  round  her  while  they  walk  the  garden  paths,  by 
moonlight;  in  simple,  sincere  words  he  says  it,  such  words 
as  a  man  uses  when  he  thinks  earnestly  and  nobly  in  his 
solitude.  And  in  the  same  mood  Violet  listens,  rever- 
ent, humble,  and  believing. 

But  what  answer  does  she  make  to  all  his  speaking  ? 
Mild  and  simple  speech  it  is — no  passion  declaims  there. 
They  are  common  words,  such  as  are  used  to  express  the 
commonest  thoughts,  but  intense  feeling  is  in  them,  to 
his  hearing.  She  comes  to-night  too  near  him  for  clear 
and  calm  inspection — he  cannot  hold  her  at  a  distance  to 
dissect  and  study.  Hereafter  it  may  be  that  he  will  go 
among  his  books  &nd  take  to  pieces  the  truths  he  is  feel- 
ing now,  and,  by  unlearning,  distinguish  and  portray 
them — but  he  cannot,  while  he  hears  her  voice  and  notes 
the  manner  of  her  reliance,  he  cannot  now  do  such  ma- 
chine work  as  this. 

Violet  does  not  prattle — these  simple  things  she  talks 


THE    REUNION.  95 

of  are  life  to  her — and  with  his  soul  he  listens.  He  does 
not  tire  of  her.  Yet  she  moves  timidly  in  her  utterance, 
as  though  she  had  not  yet  lost  the  dread  and  fear  of  pit- 
falls and  stumbling.  As  though  apprehensive,  in  less 
degree  perhaps  than  she  ever  was  before,  but  still  appre- 
hensive, that  his  proud  head  would  suddenly  lift  itself 
from  its  bent,  attentive  posture,  and  say  in  that  language 
she  would  be  so  quick  to  understand,  that  he  had  heard 
enough ;  that  she  wearied  him. 

She  tells  him  how  the  time  has  gone ;  of  the  dark 
woods  with  paths,  where  she  and  Miss  Watson  have  spent 
so  many  mornings — of  the  wild  flowers,  and  the  sunsets, 
of  the  sail  on  the  river  .  .  .  and  of  the  baby  that  died 
yesterday  and  was  buried  to-day.  And,  with  a  saddened 
and  faltering  voice,  she  told  him  beside  of  the  fearful 
thought  that  so  distressed  her  this  morning  about  little 
Viola.  And  how  his  letter  had  come  and  put  the  fear  to 
flight — and  there  her  voice  faltered  in  the  narration,  and 
— Silsey  comforted  her  ! 

Later  in  the  evening  they  gathered  in  the  parlor,  Miss 
Watson  and  her  two  guests ;  and  these  three  nearly  filled 
it.  Ajar  stood  the  door  of  the  bed-chamber,  in  which 
lay  the  sleeping  baby  in  her  cradle,  and  near  that  door 
the  mother  sat.  In  a  corner  of  the  room,  upon  a  little 
table — every  article  of  furniture  in  the  room  was  of  the 
smallest  and  simplest  description  (Miss  Watson  did  not 
live  by  bread  alone), — stood  a  lamp  shaded ;  it  cast  a  soft- 
ened light  through  the  room,  filled  far  more  brightly  with 
the  pleasant  talk.  Silsey  and  Miss  Watson  seemed  in 
their  best  mood  to-night — they  uttered  no  word  that 
soared  or  sounded  above  or  beneath  the  reach  of  Violet. 
Neither  had  any  new  discovery  or  thought  to  offer  about 
passional  catalysis,  or  any  other  wonderful  phenomena. 
Violet  might  have  joined  with  them  in  the  conversation, 


96  GETTING    ALONG. 

but  she  preferred  instead  to  sit  where  her  eyes  bent  full 
on  Silsey's  noble  profile,  and  how  she  looked !  how  she 
listened  !  Looked  and  listened  .  .  .  looked  and  listened 
.  .  .  listened  .  .  .  till  she  began  to  dream,  and  at 
length  when  she  looked  up  again,  bewildered  and  lost, 
there  stood  Silsey  with  both  hands  pressed,  as  if  in  bless- 
ing, on  her  head.  She  had  fallen  asleep  while  she  looked 
and  listened. 

XVI. 

BUT  the  next  morning  !  If  it  had  not  been  for  that 
next  morning!  .  .  . 

It  seemed  so  strange  that  Miss  Watson  and  Silsey 
should  have  so  very  much  to  say  to  each  other  in  the 
garden — that  their  argument  should  be  so  long  continued 
— and  that  the  hostess  should  engage  in  it  so  seriously, 
with  so  much  earnestness. 

And  yet,  that  was  a  painful  blush  with  which  Violet 
acknowledged  it,  it  might  possibly  be  proved  that  their 
capacity  for  friendship  was  quite  beyond  her  power  of 
apprehension ;  why  could  she  not  ever  rise  above  a  pal- 
try fear  that  some  other  being  in  this  world  could  be 
loved  by  him  beside  herself?  .  .  .  Would  she,  if  she 
could,  behold  him  fettered  by  so  wouk  a  bund  ?  Was  it 
not  possible  for  her  to  rise  to  their  level  ?  Was  she  not 
aware  that  she  could  not  answer  to  more  than  the  neces- 
sities of  his  heart — that  his  intellect  needed  human  com- 
panions, fellow-students  ?  Violet  asked  herself  these 
questions,  and  she  struggled  to  achieve  her  freedom  from 
the  dominion  of  doubts  and  fears — to  emerge  into  ca- 
pacity for  deeper  trust  and  holier  confidence. 

But  it  is  a  hard  task  that  she  has  set  herself.  She,  in 
her  own  way,  has  her  appointed  struggle,  her  possible 
achievement.  She  must  conquer.  So  wisely  she  sits 


OF    ROYAL   LINEAGE.  97 

and  argues.  And  her  heart  is  still  greater  in  its  re- 
sources and  capacities  than  her  intellect  in  its  arguments, 
for  she  is  ready  to  forgive  whatever  there  may  be  for  her 
to  forgive — everything  except  the  questioning  against 
her,  which  shames  her.  That  is  a  sin  ;  she  feels  it  to  be 
so,  and  the  consciousness  makes  it  so ;  but  there  is  no 
confession,  and  the  guilt  and  its  concealment  make  gloom 
in  her  heart  this  bright  morning. 

Unmindful  of  the  glory  of  the  early  day,  they  are 
walking  under  another  sky  than  that  which  spreads  above 
Violet  and  her  child — the  mother  who,  seated  on  the 
door-step,  watches  the  trees  that  lift  their  graceful 
branches,  and  sway  through  the  delicious  dance,  proudly 
shrinking  from  the  wind's  embraces,  tossed  about  in  a 
bewildering  excitement,  and  the  river  flowing  on  in  the 
brightness  of  its  morning  glory,  and  the  blue  sky,  beyond 
which  is  heaven !  They  feel  a  breath  from  another 
sphere  flowing  through  their  souls.  Of  royal  lineage 
are  this  man  and  woman ;  but  they  have  been  crowned 
with  mortal  crowning!  and  the  sovereignty  is  not  quite 
their  own — and  the  government  each  feels  upon  the 
shoulder  is  not  quite  established — they  are  not  the  abso- 
lute masters  of  their  own  riches.  Was  ever  being  on 
this  earth  save  ONE,  who,  exalted  above  every  ideal  per- 
fection, passes  the  range  of  all  human  apprehension  ? 

They  are  not  united  to-day ;  but  they  do  not  dispute 
— they  do  not  contradict  each  other.  It  is  not  cold 
courtesy,  nor  human  cowardice,  that  prevents  them,  since 
they  are  at  variance  this  morning.  They  are  too  cour- 
ageous for  hot  and  angry  disputation — too  reverent  for 
swift  denial  of  each  other's  word.  They  are  wise ;  they 
know  how  really  slow  is  the  progress  of  impatient  souls, 
how  much  the  mind  that  is  eager  and  swift  to  grasp  has 
to  unlearn  and  unloose.  They  have  learned  the  utility 

VOL.  n.  5 


98  GETTING    ALONG. 

of  toleration — the  profound  wisdom  underlying  the  in- 
junction, "  Slow  to  speak,  swift  to  hear." 

"  As  the  facts  go,  nevertheless,  he  is  neither  pure  nor 
guiltless,"  Silsey  is  saying.  ''  He  is  a  criminal.  I  do 
not  mean  merely  according  to  the  common  law,  though 
that  regards  him  with  abhorrence.  He  will  perhaps 
manage  to  evade  the  penalty  of  his  transgression.  His 
legal  innocence,  if  I  understand  you,  you  do  not  seek  to 
maintain." 

"  No — I  do  not  question  the  authenticity  of  the  facts 
Herder's  enemies  bring  up  against  him.  They  may  be 
true;  though  I  believe  them  not.  But  actual  criminality, 
you  are  certainly  aware,  depends  on  something  beside 
the  commission  of  acts.  Guilt  involves  act.  It  is  not 
act  that  involves  guilt,  though  the  consequences  in  two 
supposed  cases  be  the  same.  Want  of  the  faculty  of  dis- 
tinguishing between  causes  occasions  the  difficulty  of 
legislation;  and  a  consideration  of  this  fact  alone  exempts 
multitudes  of  judges  and  jurymen  from  occupying,  in  the 
criminal  calendar,  the  most  prominent  places.  Herder 
ought  to  have  found  in  you,  not  an  apologist,  not  a  de- 
fender, but  an  aid  and  champion.  As  for  me,  I  cannot 
join  this  hue  and  cry  against  him." 

"  Your  sympathies  are  for  some  reason  elicited." 

"  More  than  my  sympathies.  I  have  seen  already,  in 
the  public  prints,  all  that  you  can  tell  me,  so  far  as  fact 
goes.  But  is  there  not  evidence  impalpable,  compared 
with  the  defmiteness  of  facts,  yet  not  lc.<s  real — which, 
indeed,  goes  beyond  fact,  at  least  such  as  the  gaping  mul- 
titude have  received  ?" 

"  Yes,  too  much,  I  fear.  It  is  hateful  to  believe  such 
'baseness  possible  of  human  nature." 

"  And  why  believe  it?"  urged  Miss  Watson. 

"  I  cannot  resist  my  convictions." 

"  Yet  you  say  that  public  opinion  has  greatly  changed 


THE    PUBLIC    OPINION  99 

in  the  course  of  the  trial — the  '  facts'  then  which  are 
brought  to  light  must  have  produced  the  change,  and  are 
you  able  to  resist  their  conclusions  ?" 

"  I  do  not  attribute  the  change  in  the  public  senti- 
ment so  much  to  new  evidence,  or  to  the  evidence  of 
facts  newly  arranged  and  presented ;  but  to,  and  solely 
to,  the  effect  produced  by  a  series  of  papers  which  have 
appeared  in  the  Daily  Bulletin.  In  some  respects  they 
are  masterly  productions — they  have  kept  pace  with  the 
trial — and  the  public  mind  has,  to  a  very  considerable 
extent,  been  drawn  in  to  think  with  them*.  The  writer, 
whoever  he  may  be,  is  firmly  persuaded,  at  least,  of  one 
thing,  the  entire  innocence  of  the  prisoner." 

"  And  does  the  writer  make  himself  absurd  in  his  de- 
fence ?" 

"  Very  far  to  the  contrary." 

"  And  yet  if  he  be  all  wrong  in  his  conclusions  he 
must  be  in  his  premises.  He  cannot  argue  his  way  log- 
ically and  arrive  at  a  just  issue,  having  started  from  a 
ground  known  as  false  ground." 

"  He  does  not  prove  himself  absurd,  but  you  surely 
perceive  that  this  fact  says  nothing  for  the  correctness  of 
his  view.  There  is  a  sort  of  sublimity  in  a  sophism  that 
succeeds  in  controlling  a  man's  mind.  The  public  de- 
tects nowhere  in  these  papers  the  conscious  face  of  the 
personal  friend  who  is  moving  heaven  aud  earth  to  save 
the  man  he  is  defending.  His  arguments  are  not  those 
of  friendship,  they  have  the  guise  of  impartial  justice. 
The  writer  has  taken  in  hand  the  cause  of  a  man  who 
but  for  him  would  have  been  universally  condemned, 
proved  guilty,  and  if  he  does  not  save  him  in  the  end,  it 
will  be  a  remarkable  fact  ...  I  said  the  public  detected 
only  the  voice  of  justice  in  these  papers,  but  I — "  .  .  . 
he  paused. 


100  GETTING    ALONG. 

"  You  think  otherwise,"  said  Miss  Watson  ..."  do 
you  suspect  the  source  ?" 

"  I  do.  They  have  their  origin  in  a  heart  which  is 
warmed  by  steadfast  intellectual  fire  to  an  intensity  of 
heat  of  which  mere  emotional  affections  are  not  sus- 
ceptible. I  assure  you  this  is  true  ...  It  is  the  very 
magnitude  of  the  writer's  delusion  that  distresses  me,  be- 
cause I  know  that,  whatever  the  result  may  be  with  the 
prisoner,  with  the  pleading  friend  the  case  is  a  hopeless 
one." 

"  Why,  Silsey  ?" 

"  It  must  have  sank  so  low  from  its  high  altitude  be- 
fore it  could  grasp  the  object  it  seeks  to  save.  A  spirit 
so  mendacious  ought  not  to  disturb  even  to  the  extent  of  a 
hair's-breadth,  the  vibration  of  a  spirit  so  celestial  as  per- 
vades that  defender." 

"  Silsey,  you  should  be  aware  that  when  one  man 
stands  out  thus  in  defence  of  another,  not  because  he  has 
legal  ability,  and  is  sure  of  pay,  but  for  the  sake  of  truth 
and  justice — opposing,  single-handed,  a  crowd  of  fanatical 
enemies,  that  the  fact  makes  a  special  claim  on  you,  and 
such  as  you.  You  should  pay  better  heed,  than  your 
careless  denial  implies,  to  the  vindication  of  this  solitary 
voice.  To  whom  is  the  defence  imputed  ?" 

"  I  have  not  heard  any  satisfactory  report.  Yet  I  have 
myself  not  felt  at  a  loss.  You  will  do  a  great  injustice 
to  the  community,  Miss  Watson,  if  you  succeed  in  the 
acquittal  of  this  man  Herder.  Even  his  wife  and  chil- 
dfen  would  allow  that." 

*'  I  shall  have  done  a  sacred  duty,  you  mean.  His  wife 
and  children  I  have  seen.  You,  are  mistaken — to  them 
he  is  not  guilty — he  is  innocent  and  suffering,"  said  Mi^s 
Watson,  so  composedly  and  so  firmly  that  Silsey  well  un- 
derstood that  he  neither  could  say  anything  to  the  point, 
nor  indeed  should  attempt  to  say  anything  further  about 


A    SPECIAL    PLEADER.  101 

it.  She  was  persuaded  beyond  the  reach  of  argument  of 
the  innocence  of  him  she  was  defending.  Nothing  could 
disturb  her  convictions.  She  set  at  defiance  all  proof 
of  his  guilt,  and  had  only  scorn,  or  rather  commiseration 
for  the  condemning  multitude. 

In  her  defence  she  was  betraying,  it  might  be,  more  of 
magnanimity  than  insight,  in  relation  to  the  man  she  had 
loved  in  her  youth — whose  false  spirit  had  developed 
with  years,  so  far  as  to  now  entitle  him  to  a  place  among 
criminals — but  she  was  doing  the  needful  work  in  a  de- 
termined, resolute,  powerful  way,  that  was  in  itself  the 
earnest  of  victory. 

"  The  examination  of  witnesses  ceased  last  night,"  said 
Silsey.  "  Had  you  heard  of  it  ?" 

"  The  reporter  came  down.  Have  you  seen  this 
morning's  paper  ?" 

"  Yes — and  the  town  is  like  a  pendulum  swinging  to 
and  fro,  in  consequence." 

"  It  will  have  its  quietus  in  the  extra  that  was  issued, 
I  suppose,  this  evening." 

"  Do  you  imagine  that  it  will  reach  the  mind  of  the 
Judge  ?" 

a  It  may  not  do  that.  But  there  may  be  a  verdict 
rendered  outside  of  the  Court-House  that  will  appeal  to 
the  government.  I  am  not  concerned  as  to  the  result.  I 
have  seen  my  way  so  clearly  through  this  case,  that  I 
have  anticipated  every  point  that  has  occurred.  My 
articles  have  been  written,  for  the  most  part,  before  the 
reporter  came  down  to  me.  And  I  have  had  to  make 
very  few.  and  those  slight,  emendations.  What  does  that 
prove  to  you  ?  For  I  was  quite  ignorant  of  the  proceed- 
ings of  a  court-room." 

"  It  proves  that  the  loving  heart  is  full  of  inspiration. 
That  its  instincts  are  direct ;  but  not  that  its  judgments 
are  right  altogether.  The  individual  soul  accepts  such 


102  GETTING    ALONG. 

truth  as  directty  appeals  to  its  wants,  and  modifies  it  for 
practical  use.  This  accounts  for  the  everlasting  modifi- 
cations of  thought.  It  is  3rour  necessity  to  believe  in 
this  roan's  innocence.  Why,  I  do  not  ask.  His  guilt 
may  be  as  apparent  as  the  sun  to  other  minds,  but  the 
fact  is  shrouded  in  thick  darkness  to  you.  To  accept 
the  general  verdict  in  this  instance,  therefore,  is  what  you 
will  not  do, — no  such  thing  should  be  required  of  you. 
I  see  that  plainly.  The  love  of  most  human  beings  de- 
generates into  passion.  It,  in  your  case,  puts  the  very 
idea  to  shame." 

Miss  Watson  offered  in  no  manner  a  denial  to  this. 
She  listened  without  disturbance  to  it.  She  was  defend- 
ing one  whom  she  had  loved,  when  he  was  fallen  into 
dire  misfortune,  for  she  believed  the  needed  weapon  to 
be  in  her  hands.  She  had  never  regarded  the  fact  as  a 
secret,  though  it  was  such,  and  when  Silsey  had  pene- 
trated it  there  was  no  reason,  discoverable  to  her,  why 
she  should  deny,  or  seek  to  hide,  the  truth. 

Had  Silsey,  in  what  he  said,  given  the  slightest  evi- 
dence of  a  suspicion  that  he  had  gone  too  far,  in  charging 
home  this  love,  and  its  blinding  influence  upon  her,  he 
might  have  received  a  different  answer.  But  Miss  Wat- 
son, knowing,  and  valuing,  his  sincerity  as  a  possession 
on  which  she  might  rely,  and  the  more  confidently,  that 
he  did  not  hesitate  and  temporize  in  expressing  his  con- 
viction, said : 

"  It  is  idle  to  attempt  to  persuade  each  other.  When 
are  you  going  to  thank  me  on  account  of  all  the  good 
things  I  have  done  for  Violet  and  the  baby  ?" 

"  I  have  already  done  it  so  many  times,  that  words  fail 
me,"  was  Silsey's  answer. 

"  But  all  this  while  you  are  leaving  her  alone,  and 
there  is  little  Viola  beseeching  you  to  come  and  have  a 
better  talk  than  we  have  had." 


MISS  WATSON'S  FAILURE.  103 


XVII. 

Miss  WATSON  did  not  accompany  Silsey  into  the 
house.  In  the  garden  paths  she  walked,  thinking  of  Her- 
der's doom,  which  Silsey  had  pronounced  inevitable. 
Inevitable,  for  even  if  Herder  were  acquitted,  such  men 
as  Violet's  husband  would  never  acquiesce  in  the  decision. 
Honorable  men  would  refuse  to  acknowledge  his  honor, 
or  accept  his  exculpation. 

With  the  resolute  bearing  which  grieved  and  rending 
hearts  sometimes  assume  in  homes  where  the  light  of  a 
dear  life  is  going  out,  smiling  down  the  gloom,  and,  with 
cheerful  words,  talking  it  down — when  the  voice  were 
more  meet  for  a  groan's  utterance,  and  the  eyes  readier 
for  tears,  with  this  nieiu  and  mood  she  stood  up  for  the 
defence  of  one  whom  the  whole,  world  had  deserted.  Oh, 
what  a  labor  of  love  it  had  been,  the  unresting,  valiant 
endeavor  to  bear  this  life  triumphantly  away  from  the 
infamy  of  an  adverse  verdict !  And  she  had  failed  .'  .  . 
the  law  might  set  him  free,  but  in  the  minds  of  men  this 
man  was  a  felon  forever. 

In  vain  had  she  exercised  all  her  gifts  of  utterance, 
heaping  authority  on  wisdom  for  a  barrier  of  defence ! 
In  vain  has  she  unveiled  the  life  known  to  her  only  in  its 
best  years,  happily,  fortunately  for  her  it  was  so,  in  order 
to  establish  the  plea  of  insanity  which  she  urged. 

In  vain  had  she,  even  as  Silsey  said,  moved  heaven 
and  earth  for  him.  She  had  taken  up  her  pen,  even  as 
he  had  said,  to  write  down  law  and  justice  ! 

And  now,  why  had  she  labored  thus  ?  For  his  sake  ? 
because  Herder  so  well  understood  the  secret  that  makes 
life  and  freedom  a  blessing  ?  .  .  .  Because  it  was  her 
inevitable,  and  unconquerable  impulse.  Because  she  was 
a  woman  and  had  loved,  and  her  soul's  faith  in  Herder 


104  GETTING   ALONG. 

was  not  so  shaken  that  her  impulse  could  be  other  than 
to  lift  her  hand  and  save,  if  that  might  be,  the  life  that 
had  been  precious  in  her  sight  once  above  all  other  lives — 
and  still,  for  her  youth's  sake,  was  precious. 

Anil  for  even  more  than  this. 

Before  going  down  to  the  Elms  with  Violet,  Miss 
Watson  had  sought  out  Herder's  wife,  lost  sight  of  in 
their  many  years  of  separation.  She  had  come  to  St. 
John's  to  remain  there  during  the  impending  trial  of  her 
husband,  who  was  accused  of  the  commission  of  several 
large  forgeries — and  her  son  was  with  her. 

Herder  himself,  Miss  Watson  had  not  seen  since  the 
week  before  his  marriage,  and  she  did  not  seek,  nor 
did  she  desire  to  see  him  now.  But  when  the  impov- 
erished condition  of  his  family  came  to  her  knowledge, 
she  knew  her  path  and  work. 

With  her  own  eyes  she  had  seen  the  poverty ;  and  the 
instincts  of  her  heart  taught  her,  for  her  ear  heard  no 
complaint,  the  desperate  condition  of  the  house.  She 
learned  its  needs.  As  an  angel  of  compassion  she  stood 
on  that  hearth-stone  and  listened  to  the  brief  story  which 
the  wife  had  to  tell. 

Herder,  as  Miss  Watson  had  told  Stella,  had  married 
her  friend — in  the  house  of  her  friends  was  she  wounded. 
There  was  no  painful  and  intensive  recollection  of  this 
fact  in  her  interview,  at  this  time,  with  the  woman  who 
nad  supplanted  her.  It  would  have  been  difficult,  under 
other  circumstances,  for  these  two  women  to  recognize 
each  other — but  not  now.  Nor  was  it  difficult  for  the 
maiden  to  pity,  and  for  the  wife  to  trust. 

Together  they  discussed  the  sorrow  that  brought  them 
together;  and  when  Herder's  wife  laid  bare  her  faith  in 
him,  her  love,  and  grief,  and  dread,  and  called  her  son, 
that  the  guest  might  see  in  him  what  she  did  see,  an  al- 
most too  perfect  image  of  his  father's  beautiful  and  buoy- 


STELLA'S  BURDEN.  105 

ant  youth,  there  was  meaning  in  the  clear,  firm  voice, 
that  rung  long  after  in  the  heart  of  the  mother  and  son, 
and  in  the  words  it  uttered : 

"  Fear  not — all  will  be  well." 

Miss  Watson  recalled  that  deliberate  injunction  and 
promise  she  had  uttered,  while  walking  in  her  garden  now 
alone,  and  turning  her  eyes  toward  the  cottage  and  survey- 
ing its  humble  dimensions,  she  said,  and  the  words  had 
with  her  the  sanctity  of  an  oath : 

"  It  is  a  little  place,  but  large  enough.  If  Silsey's 
prophecy  be  true,  my  home  here  must  take  in  a  larger 
family — and  Heaven  help  us  all.  Herder's  noble  boy 
had  no  degenerate  father." 


XVIII. 

EARLY  on  the  Monday  morning,  according  to  the 
promise  given  to  Miss  Mar,  Stella  set  out  on  her  return 
to  St.  John's.  Susan  accompanied  her  as  far  as  Har- 
lem. 

Stella  was  going  back  to  the  city  where  the  Baldwins 
lived.  There  were  many  reflections  associated  with  that 
thought,  sufficient  to  induce  the  silence  with  which  Susan 
trudged  along  the  rough  three  miles  by  her  companion's 
side. 

Stella,  too,  went  burdened  with  thoughts  many  and 
strange ;  and  had  for  herself  hardly  a  word  to  say. 
Many  a  question  lingered  for  utterance  on  her  lip ;  but 
whenever  she  thought  to  speak  them,  and  looked  with 
that  intent  to  Susan's  sad  and  quiet  face,  something 
stayed  her.  In  vain  she  endeavored  to  rouse  herself  for 
the  child's  sake,  and  divert  whatever  thoughts  those  might 
be  which  brought  so  many  shadows  to  that  honest,  in- 
genuous face ;  but  each  effort  that  she  made  to  do  so 
5* 


1 06  GETTING   ALONG. 

failed,  for  her  own  mind  was  all  absorbed  in  another 
train  of  thought  than  Susan  could  appreciate  or  under- 
stand. 

She  was  going  back  to  St.  John's,  and  she  was  eager 
to  be  there — she  was  going  to  test  the  validity  of  Mr. 
Leightoo's  theory,  the  value  of  his  instructions.  She  was 
going  back  to  labor  among  books — to  get  wisdom — and 
she  was  eager  to-be  at  once  where  the  work  might  com- 
mence. 

Her  restless  and  longing  spirit  beheld  some  light 
eliminating  from  Mr.  Leighton's  dark  words,  for  dark 
they  had  on  their  first  hearing  seemed  to  her.  Instructed 
by  this  man,  who  was  himself  so  hard  a  student,  she  was 
ambitious  now  to  work  in  the  same  direction  as  that  in 
which  he  was  working.  In  that  hour  of  dawn  she  had 
taken  a  survey  of  her  acquired  possessions ;  how  small 
they  were,  how  few !  That  magic  word,  Knowledge,  did 
indeed  seem  to  her  capacious  of  Being — she  wondered  at 
herself  that  it  had  been  possible  to  remain  so  long 
blinded.  How  strange  that,  without  his  assistance,  she 
had  not  even  long  ago  dropped  the  enfeebling  and  per- 
plexing difficulty  that  had  held  her  in  bondage  while  she 
sought  its  solution  ! 

Open  thy  triple  gates,  oh  Wisdom  !  give  this  pleading 
girl  to  come  in.  She  will  surrender,  oh  Knowledge  !  for 
thy  sake  all  thou  could'st  require.  Give,  oh  Keeper  of 
the  gates,  give  to  her  what  thou  canst — and  let  her  exhaust 
life  in  thy  service,  if  nothing  less  will  satisfy  her  ! 

Stella  and  Susan  did  not,  however,  arrive  at  Harlem 
without  having  interchanged  many  a  word.  For  at  length, 
in  the  heat  of  her  reflections,  one  question  after  another 
in  regard  to  Mr.  Leightou,  calculated  to  draw  from  Susan 
whatever  she  might  have  ascertained  in  regard  to  his  life 
beyond  the  beach,  found  utterance  of  Stella  Gammon. 


SUSAN'S  DISCOVERY.  107 

But  the  all  that  Susan  knew  concerning  him  was  little, 
and  of  no  moment,  when  compared  with  the  far-reaching 
curiosity  he  had  inspired  in  her  guest.  It  was  nothing  to 
be  told  that  he  had  come  to  the  beach  early  in  the  sum- 
mer, and  that  he  read  and  wrote  most  of  his  time — that 
he  had  been  rarely  out  at  sea  with  her  father — that  he 
was  a  very  wise  man,  and  sometimes  very  odd.  Whence 
had  he  come  ? — whither  would  he  go  when  he  went  from 
the  beach  ?  He  seemed  like  a  man  who  was  accustomed 
to  solitude,  not  one  who  had  left  wife,  and  children, 
and  all  other  ties  behind  for  a  brief  season  of  lonely  labor. 
Had  he  a  wife  ?  Susan  could  not  tell.  She  thought 
not.  Of  course  she  could  not  tell — of  course  she  thought 
not — and  yet  it  vexed  Stella  to  hear  that  answer,  though 
she  had  anticipated  it — for  neither  could  she  tell.  She 
also  thought  not,  and  felt  vexed  beside,  that  she  should 
have  thought  anything  about  it  As  little  satisfaction 
did  she  derive  from  every  other  question  that  she  asked 
and  Susan  failed  to  answer,  and  finally  the  unpromising 
theme  was  dropped,  and  some  less  troublesome,  more 
definite  interrogations  passed  between  them,  and  they 
drew  near  to  Harlem,  and  the  office,  where  the  stage  was 
already  waiting  for  its  passengers. 

After  the  hurried  departure,  iu  which  many  words  which 
each  had  meant  to  say  to  the  other  were  forgotten,  Susan 
walked  down  the  street  on  the  side  where  stood  the  drug- 
shop  in  which  Horace  Chiltou  spent  the  greater  part  of 
his  time.  But  as  she  went  slowly  by,  looking  towards  the 
counter,  and  then  towards  the  desk,  where  he  was  usually 
occupied,  she  saw  only  the  little  man,  Hopper,  and  with 
a  quicker  step  she  went  down  towards  the  cottage  : — ar- 
rived there,  she  was  also  disappointed  :  the  house  was 
locked,  not  a  sound  or  token  of  life  was  there  for  ear  or 
eye. 


108  GETTING    ALONG. 

She  sat  down  in  the  portico  to  rest  and  wait,  and  there 
Susan  remained  until  towards  the  middle  of  the  afternoon, 
when  an  old  man,  Mrs.  Chilton's  next-door  neighbor,  who 
had  gone  into  his  garden  to  work,  seeing  the  young  girl 
sitting  there,  came  and  leaned  against  the  fence,  and  tak- 
ing a  deliberate  survey  of  Susan,  said,  drawing  his  stump 
of  a  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  wiping  his  face  with  his 
shirt-sleeve  : 

"  Who  be  you  waiting  for,  little  gal  ?  The  school- 
ma'am  F 

Susan  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  he  responded  : 

"  You  've  got  a  time  yet  afore  you,  then,  I  'm  feared. 
They  be  all  gone  up  to  St.  John's,  the  folks  is  ;  and  Mrs. 
Chilton,  she  telled  me  if  any  one  came,  to  say  they  'd  be 
back  by  night — not  afore.  Will  you  come  and  play  with 
my  little  gals  till  then,  hey  ?" 

The  old  man  laid  his  hand  behind  his  ear  while  Susan 
answered,  and  declined  his  invitation,  and  then  rising, 
she  forthwith  set  out  on  her  homeward  way. 

She  was  going  back  alone  to  the  beach  while  all  the 
world  seemed  to  have  gone  up  to  St.  John':?.  I  must 
make  record  of  it,  for  Susan  was  in  all  these  discontented 
moments  but  storing  up  wrath  against  wrath — that  home- 
ward walk  was  not  a  pleasant  one  to  her.  It  was  long, 
and  dull,  and  tedious — never  seemed  the  way  so  rough 
before;  often  she  sat  down  to  rest  by  the  road-side,  but 
she  found  no  rest ;  the  sun.  that  shot  down  fierce  and 
burning  rays  upon  her,  gave  only  light  to  those  happy  and 
fortunate  ones  who  had  gone  to  the  city  ...  in  place  of 
the  sullen,  monotonous,  hoarse  roar  ot  ocean,  they  were 
within  hearing  of  the  unending  noise  of  life.  Her  walk 
was  lonely,  but  if  it  had  been  lonelier,  if  she  had  gone  with- 
out those  spirits  that  attended  her,  it  had  been  quite  as 
well  for  Susan. 

As  she  drew  near  the  strand,  instead  of  taking  the 


NOT   THERE.  109 

path  that  led  directly  to  the  cabin,  Susan  chose  another, 
•which  led  her  beyond  the  mill,  so  that  returning  homeward 
airaiti  she  could  not  avoid  passing  by  the  old  red  tower. 

What  was  the  wilful  impulse  that  led  her  thither  ? 
Susan  did  not  pause  at  any  point  of  her  progress  to  ask 
herself  this  question.  But  when  her  feet  struck  into 
the  path  that  would  lead  her  to  him,  she  went  on  more 
swiftly  than  she  had  gone  before. 

Whatever  her  motive  had  been,  if  motive  she  had, 
blank  disappointment  awaited  Susan. 

When  she  went  up  to  the  round  room,  Mr.  Leighton 
was  not  there. 

No  response  followed  her  knock,  which  was  again  and 
again  repeated.  No  absorbed  gaze  was  lifted  towards  her 
when  at  length  she  opened  the  door.  No  face  laden  with 
evidences  of  long-continued  toil  and  laborious  thought, 
looked  up  to  welcome  her.  He  was  not  there.  Nor  else- 
where would  she  find  him,  though  she  sought.  The  sink- 
ing heart  of  Susan  Dillon  knew  this  as  her  eyes  glanced 
round  the  room. 

There  stood  the  old  pine-table  beneath  the  window ; 
but  the  writing-desk  was  gone.  The  pebbles  and  the 
shells  were  on  the  shelf;  but  all  those  books  were  gone ! 
The  trunk  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  strapped,  and 
ready  for  removal — he  had  himself  already  departed. 

Poor  Susan,  comprehending  too  much,  yet  so  little,  of 
all  this,  stood  gazing  around  her,  half  weeping,  trembling, 
desolate. 

Slowly  she  moved  across  the  room,  stepping  lightly  as 
if  walking  through  a  place  of  sepulture.  She  looked 
over  her  childhood's  treasures — one  by  one  slowly  took 
up  the  shells  and  stones — they  were  all  there  except  the 
few  specimens  that  she  had  given  him  one  day.  Those 
were  removed,  and  in  their  place  were  some  old  coins  he 
had  promised  her.  T  said  the  books  were  gone,  but  in 


110  GETTING    ALONG. 

the  corner  of  the  room,  under  the  shelf,  there  was  a  pile 
of  volumes  which  Susan  had  not,  in  her  first  glance  around 
the  room,  observed.  She  stooped  and  lifted  the  upper- 
most volume,  and  through  her  tears  she  saw  her  name 
written  in  his  own  hand  on  the  title-page.  She  laid  it 
down  again,  and  for  a  moment  stood  with  her  face  buried 
in  her  hands,  her  head  bent  on  her  breast,  trembling  and 
desolate  ;  the  very  world  seemed  falling  into  chaos — the 
earth  rending  before  her. 

To  the  chair  where  he  had  sat,  which  still  stood  before 
the  table,  she  groped  her  way, like  one  in  the  dark;  there 
she  sat  down — and  there  on  the  table  before  her  was  a 
letter  he  had  written  to  her.  He  was  gone,  then  ;  never 
more  would  he  return. 

By  the  waning  light  of  that  day's  sun  she  read : 

"  DEAR  CHILD,  DEAR  SUSAN  : 

"  I  find  that  the  most  difficult  task  yet  remains  unper- 
formed. 

"  It  has  not  been  easy  or  pleasant  for  me  to  bestir 
myself  in  preparation  for  departure  from  the  coast.  Less 
easy  have  I  found  it  to  say  a  parting  word  to  you.  You 
will  think  I  have  gone  away  suddenly;  but  it  is  not  so. 
I  have  looked  this  departure  in  the  face  day  after  day, 
and  felt  it  drawing  nearer — and  now  I  must  go. 

"  I  could  not  leave  this  pleasant  spot  without  speaking 
a  last  word  to  you ;  yet  I  should  not  say  the  last  word, 
for  I  hope  that  I  shall  often  speak  to  you  again.  What 
shall  I  say  to  you  ?  What  were  best  I  hardly  know  at 
this  moment ;  a  word  of  counsel  is,  perhaps,  what  you 
will  value  most  when  I  am  gone. 

"  Uppermost  in  your  miud  at  this  time,  I  suppose, 
is  the  singular  exhibition  at  which  you,  unfortunately, 
were  present  yesterday.  Unfortunately,  I  repeat — I 
would  not  have  had  you  there.  But,  as  you  were  there, 


THE  PROFESSOR'S  LETTER.  HI 

regrets  are  vain.  You  heard  some  very  foolish  conversa- 
tion. Yet,  for  you  are  not  so  wise  as  you  will  be,  Susan, 
one  day  it  may,  perhaps,  work  to  your  advantage,  the 
hearing  that  you  gave.  For  I  observed  well  how  you 
listened. 

"  If  ever  you  are  tempted  to  think  and  speak  as  she 
did  yesterday,  remember  that  I  warned  you  against  it. 
That  young  girl  has  wild  notions  in  her  head,  which  will 
occasion  her  great  trouble.  Her  character  is  stormy. 
It  would  evince  prudence  on  your  part  were  you  to  keep 
out  of  her  way  until  she  has  become  a  wiser  person. 
Let  her  alone  ;  she  will  learn  nothing  of  you — and  you, 
certainly,  can  learn  nothing  of  her.  Have  nothing  to  do 
with  her,  I  repeat. 

"  I  have  selected  these  books — the  Psalms,  and  Greek . 
Testament,  the  Dictionaries,  and  the  best  of  the  few  vol- 
umes of  History  I  happened  to  bring  with  me.  Leave 
them  in  this  room.  I  shall  wish  to  think  of  you  as  a 
student  in  this  chamber.  ^Seek  knowledge  ;  it  is  a  divine 
thirst — happy  are  you  if  you  feel  i£  I  have  observed 
that  you  do  not  greatly  thirst — you  want  friends  and 
sympathy.  But  now,  while  you  are  left  here  alone  with 
your  father,  let  me  urge  upon  you  the  duty  of  studying 
these  books;  there  is  strength  in  them — they  will  make 
you  strong. 

"  You  are  young  to  be  living  thus  by  yourself;  but 
you  will  not  always  be  alone ;  prepare  your  mind  for  the 
change — get  some  good  furniture  in  there,  and  mark  it 
with  your  name,  so  that  it  shall  not  be  taken  away  from 
you. 

"  May  you  be  prosperous  !  I  think  you  deserve  this 
from  my  lips.  Now,  deport  yourself  as  you  should  do  ;  I 
need  not  again  tell  you  how — I  have  already  told  you  so 
many  times.  If  we  meet  again,  I  shall  look  to  see  a  wo- 
man .  .  .  And  never  believe  that  your  attainments,  how 


112  GETTING   ALONG. 

far  so  ever  they  may  raise  you  above  all  whom  you  know 
— no  matter  what  position  you  hold  by  virtue  of  them — 
never  for  a  moment  fancy,  while  you  retain  the  capacity 
to  go  on,  that  you  should  be  satisfied  with  what  you  have 
wrought  and  gained.  The  moment  that  you  do  so,  you 
are  a  slave  to  yourself. 

"  Think  sometimes  of  the  old  man  to  whom  you  have, 
without  suspecting  it,  rendered  some  good  service.  He 
can  but  wish  you  well.  Glad  would  he  be  in  any  way  to 
aid  you.  But  he  rejoices  to  think  that  you  can  aid 
yourself.  Whatever  he  may  have  striven  to  impart  to 
you,  remember  this.  He  is  old — he  has  had  experience ; 
you  are  young,  and  without  it.  He  must  have  learned 
some  things  in  those  many  years  which  you,  in  your  few 
years,  could  not  have  learned.  But  he  is  not  infallible. 
He  has  learned  in  the  old  mill  that  he  may  have  been 
mistaken  sometimes.  So  you  must  trust  to  your  own 
judgment ;  but  be  ready  always  to  correct  your  mistakes 
when  you  discover  them.  Be  contented.  I  Hope  not  too 
much  of  life,  neither  give  it  frowns  andTiard  words. 
And  keep  your  heart  whole.  Let  no  one  rob  you  of  it — 
give  it  not  away  to  one,  or  you  will  be  sure  to  repent ; 
there  are  many  who  need  it — keep  it  for  them)) 

"  Be  strong — be  of  good  cheer.  I  bear  you  in  mind — 
I  think  of  you,  my  young  sister.  Be  all  that  your  good 
father  could  wish,  and  I  can  ask  no  more — you  should 
desire  no  more.  That  is  a  high  aim — and  now  act  up  to 
it.  And  so,  farewell." 


XIX. 

Now  the  reader  is  not  for  a  moment  to  suppose  that, 
profound  as  Susan  Dillon's  reverence  and  gratitude  for 
Mr.  Leighton  was,  deep  as  was  her  disappointment  on 


TREASURE    IN    THE    NET.  113 

account  of  his  departure,  that  she  accepted  all  he  said  in 
this  letter  for  truth.  In  special  manner  did  she  take  ex- 
ception to  his  criticism  on  Stella  Gammon.  It  seemed 
strange  to  her,  when  she  contrasted  the  slighting  way  in 
which  he  spoke  of  her  with  the  interview  that  yesterday 
took  place  between  them.  Stella's  passionate  outbreak 
had  appealed  to  him  not  in  vain  at  that  time ;  but  he 
seemed  here  attempting  to  deny  that  before  Susan — or 
before  himself,  it  may  be.  His  cold  gravity  at  that  time 
seemed  less  frigid  and  forbidding,  even  in  that  contrast, » 
which  it  might  seem  would  the  rather  heighten  it.  Her 
brightness  had,  certainly,  softened  his  gloom — had  found 
some  rent  in  his  nature  by  which  it  swept  into  the  mys- 
tery, resistless.  Even  when  he  stood  as  the  avenger, 
hovering  over  her  like  a  fate,  the  cloud  that  panoplied 
him  had  lightened — a  glow,  like  broad,  bright  bands  of 
sunlight,  had  spread  beneath  its  surface. 

His  word  of  warning  came  too  late  to  Susan.  The 
net  that  had  floated  long  upon  the  waves,  was  now  drawn 
down  out  of  sight.  And  Susan  felt  that  the  treasure  for 
which  she  had  watched  long,  was  coming  in.  She  was 
alive,  and  that  which  vitalizes  being  was  not  withheld 
from  her.  Her  little  skiff,  THE  WORLD,  was  filling  rap- 
idly. David  Baldwin  standing  at  the  helm,  and  Stella, 
Falcon,  Leighton,  all  on  board. 

But  though,  as  far  as  Stella  was  concerned,  Susan  re- 
jected Mr.  Leighton's  counsel,  the  studies  for  which  the 
past  weeks  had  prepared  the  way,  were  not  neglected  by 
her.  She  entered  upon  them  with  ardent  purpose  and 
hope,  aware  of  all  the  distance  that  she  must  go  in  solitude 
before  she  could  presume  to  think  of  naming  herself  in 
the  same  breath  with  those  others. 

In  the  mornings,  and  during  the  long  afternoons  when 
her  father  was  away  from  home,  Susan,  in  the  round 


114  GETTING   ALONG. 

room  that  had  been  her  play-house,  stayed  and  studied. 
Even  in  the  evenings  the  work  of  study  went  on ;  if 
alone,  she  read — and  if  her  father  was  at  home,  aloud  to 
him.  But  her  thoughts  did  not  all  seek  satisfaction  in 
those  pages.  Many  of  them  ran  inland  to  St.  John's  in 
quest  of  other  nourishment.  There  was  no  one  near  to 
warn  Susan,  and  she  began  to  dream  again,  and  to  re- 
member that  word  "  daughter" — and  her  dream,  like  a 
golden  cloud  lifting  above  the  sun  that  has  vanished  be- 
neath the  horizon,  shone  over  the  head  of  one  who  has 
long  been  removed  from  our  sight — of  whom  we  must 
presently  go  in  search,  if  haply  we  may  find  him. 

Susan's  dreaming  was  too  active  to  take  merely  such 
form  as  this.  She  kept  no  journal ;  but  with  Mr. 
Leighton's  letter  lying  open  before  her  for  a  form,  and 
David  Baldwin's  note  beside  it  for  an  apology,  many  were 
the  letters  which  she  wrote  these  men.  Letters  that  had, 
however,  no  destination  save  that  given  by  the  winds  of 
heaven  on  which  the  scattered  fragments  were  flung. 
Mysterious  themes  were  they  on  which  Susan  held  this 
imaginary  discourse.  Neither  of  her  correspondents,  in 
any  case,  whatever  the  topic  might  be,  were  allowed  to 
agree  with  her.  Partly  to  amuse  herself,  and  partly  to 
express  thoughts,  opinions,  and  emotions  which  distracted 
her,  and  which  must  have  a  vent,  and  partly  in  the  en- 
deavor of  a  soul  seeking  to  know  itself,  to  discern  truth 
by  looking  at  it  in  the  contrasted  lights  of  confiding 
faith,  and  uncompromising  unbelief,  she  did  this.  It 
was  a  strange  occupation,  and  one,  it  may  be  thought, 
more  natural  to  a  mind  like  Stella  Oammon's  than  one 
like  Susan  Dillon's — if  Susan's  aspiration,  her  solitude, 
and  her  recollections,  be  not  borne  in  mind.  It  was  far 
from  a  worthless  occupation.  If  it  fostered  certain 
tendencies  of  mind  and  heart  which  Mr.  Leighton  would 
have  nipped  in  the  bud,  at  least  it  did  so  openly.  The 


THE    HUSBANDMAN.  115 

occupation  so  far  engrossed  the  moments  not  given  to 
study,  and  household  labor,  that  she  had  no  time  for  in- 
dulgence in  morbid  grief,  and  no  chance  for  deceiving 
her  own  soul. 

Not  a  solitary  effort  did  Susan  make  after  advance- 
ment, that  had  hot  a  dire^  reference  to  David  Baldwin. 
She  knew  his  moods,  knew  them  better  than  many  sworn 
friends,  to  whom  his  evcry-day  life  was  known  far  more 
intimately  than  it  could  ^mp  oe  to  her.  She  would 
come  into  his  circle  and  tlje  of  Stella  Gammon — for  at 
length,  she  dreamed,  it  would  be  her  fate  to  come — not 
like  a  bit  of  drift-wood,  but  lustrous  with  adornments 
bought  by  her  own  labor.  Alas  for  her,  say  you  ?  For 
many  a  day,  life  went  on  so  ^ith  Susan. 


XX. 

/ 

MR.  DE  LISLE  LAYARD  had  not  mistaken  the  quality 

of  the  soil  in  which  he  planted  the  seed,  for  whose  re- 
turn and  harvest  he  was  well  content  to  wait. 

With  what  anxious  expectation  Miss  Mar  hung  her 
hope  upon  the  promise  he  held  out  to  her  on  the  night 
of  their  -conversation,  when,  returning  from  the  con- 
fessional where  she  had  revealed  her  heart's  fear  for  an- 
other, she  listened  to  his  astonishing  words. 

Since  then  De  Lisle  had  entered  on  the  duties  of  his 
professorship,  and,  for  a  time,  necessarily  engrossed  by 
them,  he  did  not  recur  to  the  theme  which  filled,  and  con- 
tinued to  fill,  the  good  lady's  mind  and  heart,  even  to 
overflowing. 

When  Stella  went  home  from,  her  brief  visit  to  the 
beach  and  turned  her  dressing-room  into  a  studio,  shut 
herself  out  from  society,  and — did  not  refuse  the  good 
books  supplied  by  Father  Francis,  which  Miss  Mar  con- 


110  GETTING    ALONG. 

trived  to  bring  in  unobserved  among  the  other  volumes 
which  were  being  gathered,  together  in  that  corner  of  the 
house.  Aunt  Judith  rejoiced  in  this  token  of  what  .she 
believed  to  be  going  on  in  Stella's  heart.  All  study,  ac- 
cording to  her  notion,  must  ultimately  lead,  if  indirectly 
even,  to  one  inevitable  climax.  She  believed  that  the 
blessing  had  even  now  comHn  answer  to  her  prayers, 
and  shortly  would  prese^  i|Mlf  in  its  own  proper  form. 
And  De  Lisle  Layard, ll^^^R  listened  to  her  reports, 
was  greatly  afraid  that  the*|^wers  had  been  answered. 

He  was  not  a  man  to  rest  in  an  uncertainty,  and,  diffi- 
cult as  access  to  Stella  seemed  now  to  have  become, 
though,  almost  daily,  he  met  her  in  Miss  Mar's  parlor, 
he  was  bent  on  an  invesuffation  of  the  phenomena  on 
which  Aunt  Judith's  rejoicing  hopes  were  founded. 

For  himself,  he  hardly  credited  the  notion  that,  because 
Stella  warded  off  inquiry  and  evaded  questioning,  she  had 
become  profoundly  settled  in  her  opinions.  He  did  not 
quite  agree  that,  because  she  was  putting  off  the  world 
in  one  sense,  she  was  putting  on  the  Church  in  another. 
He  had  an  inquiring  mind,  as  I  said,  and  his  investigations 
would  be  sure  to  go  deeper  than  Mrs.  Mar's,  waylaid  ami 
beset  as  they  were  by  her  hopes,  would  do. 

His  mind,  in  the  day's  varied  labor,  had  received  the 
needed  stimulus — and  before  he  went  up  into  Johu's 
street,  it  was  still  further  quickened  by  an  interview  with 
David  Baldwin,  on  which  a  word  of  comment  must  here 
be  said. 

Disgusted  himself  with  the  sort  of  life  he  had  led  thus 
far,  and  attracted  irresistibly  towards  Layard  by  various 
causes,  among  which,  and  perhaps  chief,  was  the  novelty 
of  such  censorship  as  the  professor  had  seen  fit  to  exer- 
cise in  his  regard,  for  no  other  hand  had  ever  laid  hold  of 
him  so  fearlessly  to  strip  him  of  the  disguises  of  custom 
and  fashion,  David  did  not  now  wait  to  be  sought  of 


LAYARD    AND    BALDWIN.  117 

Layard.     He  was  iustead  the  seeker,  as  Layavd  had  cal- 
culated— and  many  were  the  hours  which  the  young  men4 
spent  together — and  with  perfect  freedom  they  made  use 
of  one  another. 

Baldwin  was  fond  of  an  argument ;  he  had  thoughts  to 
dispose  of — problems  to  solve.  Layard  surpassed  him  in 
quickness  and  subtlety  ofWthought,  but  David  was  more 
than  Layard's  peer  in  dep|||of_refiectiou,  in  purity  of  in- 
tellect, and  in  warmth  ot^^art.  In  festive  scenes,  in 
market-places,  in  theatres^and  churches,  they  were 
together,  discoursing  life's  various  phases.  Here  was  a 
novel  exhibition.  One  youth  tempting  another  to  a 
noble  life,  to  honorable  exertion,  to  a  resolute  divorce 
from  a  career  of  folly  !  Luring  him,  by  arguments  which 
he  well  kneAV  how  to  urge,  Troin  ignoble,  indolent  ease, 
to  noble  labor.  It  was  a  marvel  to  see,  this  guiding  .  .  . 
It  was  a  rare  process  by  which  this  man  beguiled  him- 
self in  striving  to  get  on  in  his  career.  He  had  insight, 
and  knew  that  he  should  not  be  disappointed  in  his 
endeavors  to  awaken  Baldwin  to  a  purer  morality  than 
that  which  was  observable  in  him.  The  virtues  of  the 
heir  of  St.  John's  Hall  in  active  operation,  would  have 
served  him,  as  his  degradation,  which,  though  he  may 
never  have  suspected  the  possibility  himself — he  would 
in  another  case  not  have  scrupled  to  use,  would  have 
altogether  failed  to  do.  Layard's  nature  disposed  him  to 
asceticism  ;  he  had  no  affections — no  sympathies,  none  at 
least  that  could  ever  successfully  interpose  in  any  work  that 
he  attempted  which  had  for  end  advancement  in  station, 
and  possession  of  power.  He  aspired  to  rule  men — ho 
wanted  their  fealty,  not  their  love — yet  he  had  the  faculty 
of  winning  their  love ;  and  that  he  did  not,  so  mistake 
the  means  of  power  as  to  esteem  the  faculty  a  very  little 
thing,  the  effort  he  made-  in  David  Baldwin's  behalf 
afforded  an  ample  witness.  Men  rule  by  virtue  of  the 


118  GETTING   ALOXG. 

excellences  as  well  as  of  the  vices  and  frailties  of  the 
governed,  and  no  one  had  studied  further  into  this  fact 
than  Mr.  De  Lisle  Layard. 

Calculating,  immovable,  his  life  even  now  in  its  be- 
ginning of  career,  was  like  a  river-course,  slow-moving  on 
its  outer  verges,  but  swift-rushing  in  its  central  current. 
From  boyhood  his  purpose  had  been  clearly  ascertained  : 
the  attainment  of  an  exaltai  place  among  the  marked 
men  of  his  time.  And  the  Churph,  undeniably,  even  as 
he  knew,  was  the  place  ror  him.  He  had  a  perfect 
mastery  of  the  forces  in  himself.  And  the  achievement 
was  not  a  great  one — it  was  such  an  one  as  a  cold  and 
selfish  nature,  if  it  have  a  resolute  purpose  in  view  and  in 
store,  can  ever  readily  accomplish ;  he  could,  as  well, 
time  granted,  work  outwardly  and  with  the  many,  as  he 
had  done  inwardly  with  one.  He  was  eloquent,  and  full 
of  specious  argument,  and  grace  of  utterance,  and  clear- 
eyed  to  see  things  in  their  true  and  direct  bearings.  He 
could  lead  others  and  forego  the  vain  gratification  of 
being  known  as  their  leader.  What  might  he  not  achieve, 
this  man  thus  capable  ? 

People  who  are  bound  to  get  along  in  life  are,  for  the 
most  part,  never  at  a  loss  for  stepping-stones — the  brooks, 
rivers,  oceans  of  difficulty,  are  never  impassible — be- 
spattered garments  and  occasional  loss  of  life  are  nothing 
in  the  way  of  warning.  Who  sees  the  soil  in  the  hurry  ? 
Who  ,Ue.ar^  the  groan  in  the  rush?  Therefore,  on  with 
the  tubular  bridges,  hollow  as  self,  and  astounding  as 
sin — on  with  the  bridges  of  suspension  |  let  them  he  hung 
to  the  height  of  Haaman's  impulse !  are  not  we  the 
People  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  heaven  and  earth 
know,  do  they  not  ?  that  we  were  made  for  '•  getting  on." 
Solely  and  only,  oh,  men  and  women,  and  little  children, 
for  getting  along !  So  let  us  up  and  at  work  !  Make 
bridges  of  each  other  !  push  along !  .  .  .  Leap  for  life, 


THE    SAINT.  119 

and  if  you  drop  not  down  into  the  midst  of  irrecoverable 
death  .  .  .  the  way  is  surely  open !  And  there,  do  you 
see  her  not  ?  do  you  hear  her  not  ?  there  waiting  for  you 
stands  the  Mother  of  Abominations,  beautiful  in  her  red 
garments,  beckoning  to  you  on  and  on  !  Oh,  does  she 
hear  you  panting  in  your  desperate  haste  ?  Is  it  for  this 
that  she  stands  smiling,  while  this  most  Christian  century 
runs  straight  into  her  arms  ? 

But  how  came  we  here  ?  let  us  go  back  to  De  Lisle 
Layard  ;  it  is  but  a  step  from  these  reflections  back  to  him. 

There  was  hardly  such  panting  haste,  such  impatient 
desperation,  in  his  style  of  getting  on.  He  was  too  self- 
possessed — the  self  he  had — a  thing  without  positive  life, 
and  therefore  not  difficult  to  manage,  was  in  his  control. 
He  worked  it  by  wires,  as  a  girl  does  the  wonderful  eyes 
of  her  waxen  doll.  He  said  to  himself,  "  I,  De  Lisle 
Layard,  have  something  to  do,  and  here  I  find  my  mate- 
rial." (Had  Miss  Mar  and  David  Baldwin  never  seen 
the  light,  his  meditation  had  been  the  same — "he  would 
have  found  "  here,"  that  is,  in  his  immediate  vicinity, 
the  material  he  needed.)  "  This  man  I  will  serve  by 
waking  him  up,  and  he  shall  pay  me  back  with  interest. 
And  this  good  old  lady  shall  have  me  for  her  spiritual 
child  .  .  .  And  I  will  be  the  leader  of  an  host." 

Now,  men  who  have  strong  passions,  with  the  worse 
tendency  instead  of  the  better  in  active  force,  oftentimes 
propose  to  themselves  baser  measures,  and  proceed  by 
baser  means  to  carry  them  into  force.  They  act  according 
to  their  nature  and  their  light.  Layard  did  precisely 
the  same  thing.  But  whereas  they  were  proud  sinners 
of  the  worst  sort,  he  bade  fair  to  come  out  a  saint  of  the 
very  best. 

The  notorious  thief  repented  of  his  sin — rapacity  or 
hunger  made  him  beside  himself,  but  when  he  saw  his 


120  GETTING    ALONG. 

crime  he  acknowledged  the  transgression.  But  iu  that 
same  hour  when  the  promise  of  Paradise  fell  on  his  ear, 
stood  in  the  same  presence  the  stout-hearted  High  Priest, 
strong  in  his  law  and  order,  spleiidid  in  his  purple  gar- 
ments, so  filling  in  his  magnificence  all  conceivable  space, 
how  do  you  suppose  that  he  should  find  room  for  repent- 
ance ? 

It's  not  to  be  supposed  that  De  Lisle  Layard  viewed  his 
condition  and  prospects  in  precisely  the  same  light  with 
us.  He  had  his  house  to  build — he  meant  not  to  defraud, 
to  take  usury,  to  extort.  But  then  what  a  nuisance  is  a 
mortgage  on  a  house  !  It  was  highly  probable  that  an 
incumbrance  would  not  rest  long  on  his. 

In  his  friendship  for  David  Baldwin  he  had  purposely 
led  the  conversation  in  a  direction  far  remote  from  topics 
which  would  seem  of  most  importance  to  a  man  of  fash- 
ion and  large  expectations.  His  sole  aim  seemed  to  be 
to  direct  a  fine  mind  to  the  most  manly  enterprises.  And 
David  Baldwin  could  not  be  unaware  of,  nor  Indifferent 
to  this  aiming.  By  degrees  Layard  so  far  won  the  inter- 
est and  respect  of  David  as  to  ensure  his  operation  in 
the  rendering  of  any  needful  service,  that  could  be  suggest- 
ed to  him  in  regard  to  the  professor  and  his  personal  af- 
fairs. Layard  was  certain  of  his  helpmate.  Even  the  op- 
position he  met  when  he  prepared  a  way  for  the  .suspi- 
cion of  his  Romish  proclivities  in  Baldwin's  mind,  the 
-  struggle  which  he  perceived,  the  struggle  of  doubt,  un- 
certainty, alarm,  and  determination,  assured  him  of  the 
safe  deposit  of  one  portion  of  the  rock  upon  which  his 
fortunes  were  to  stand  While  as  yet  far  removed  from 
this  point  now  attained,  he  had  reckoned  securely  upon 
it,  he  had  counted  also  on  the  impetus  which  should  suc- 
ceed a  removal  of  that  resting-place. 

It  was  on  the  day  of  which  we  began  to  speak,  when 


THE    CONVERT.  121 

the  long  parenthesis  interrupted,  that  the  two  friends  had 
arrived  at  this  point. 

Deliberately  Layard  had  led  Baldwin  to  a  discovery 
of  the  fact  of  his  change  of  creed  and  plan  of  life ;  and 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  his  forbodeings  and  fears  had  all 
pointed  towards  this  very  result,  David  was  greatly  as- 
tonished thereat.  He  would  not  believe  the  words  he 
heard,  until  they  had  been  reiterated  in  his  hearing,  and 
even  then  he  went  laughing  away,  assuming  a  great 
strength  in  his  incredulity.  Layard  had  looked  even  for 
some  such  demonstration  as  this  on  Baldwin's  part — he 
anticipated  surprise,  unbelief,  and  some  little  displeasure, 
it  might  be.  But  he  anticipated  also  a  relenting,  a  pity- 
ing relenting.  He  looked  for  a  serious  re-consideration 
of  his  case,  and  thereafter,  all  that  he  should  need. 

There  was  another  thought  connected  indirectly  with 
these — another  aim  in  view,  to  which  De  Lisle  Layard 
had  of  late  given  large  room,  and  liberty,  and  a  deal  of 
speculative  consideration. 

Well  he  remembered  Stella  Gammon  of  old,  in  the 
years  when  he  had  been  much  to  her ;  those  years  of  child- 
hood, when  the  mystery  that  enshrouded  herself  had 
troubled  her ;  when,  longing  for  love,  before  she  had  spok- 
en her  love  for  him,  she  had  told  him  her  want,  and  won- 
dered aloud,  in  his  hearing — and  envied  all  children 
their  mothers — not  excepting  in  that  envy  of  longing  and 
love  even  Lucia  Tree  having  a  mother  such  as  she  had ! 
He  had  in  those  days  consoled  the  orphan  child,  or  at- 
tempted to  do  so.  The  memory  of  those  days  was  now 
with  the  man.  He  followed  the  bent  of  her  questioning, 
grieving  infancy,  and  beheld,  before  him,  an  enterprise. 
Could  not  Miss  Mar  tell  him  all  that  he  wished  to  know  ? 
who  were  her  parents  ?  where  had  they  lived  ?  where 
died  ?  Could  she  not,  would  she  not  tell  him  ?  It  was 
merely,  of  course,  to  add  some  new  joy  to  the  life  of  Stella 

VOL.  II.  6 


122  GFTTING    ALONG. 

Gammon  that  he  sought  to  discover.  Not  long  ago  an 
unguarded  word  had  dropped  from  Aunt  Judith  that 
convinced  him  that  Stella's  parents,  so  far  as  she  knew, 
were  jet  living.  Even  that  word,  slight  as  it  was,  boldly 
and  broadly  as  he  interpreted  it,  the  poor,  inadvertently 
dropped  syllable,  gave  him  all  the  knowledge  he  had  of 
the  nature  of  Miss  Mar's  private  conviction.  But  soon, 
for  that  was  his  intention,  he  would  arrive  at  the  truth 
in  its  entire  relation. 

The  occasion  of  the  visit  which  he  went  now  to  make 
in  John's  street  had  been  prepared  between  Layard  and 
Miss  Judith.  She  had  absented  herself  from  the  house, 
that  he  might  have  the  conversation  with  Stella  which  he 
besought,  in  obedience  to  the  wish  that  he  would  do  so 
which  he  had  previously  roused  in  that  good  lady's  heart. 
She  went  from  the  house  before  he  entered  it,  hoping  for 
all  kinds  of  reconciliation  of  difficulties  which  she  could 
not  understand,  but  which  sorely  perplexed  and  tried 
her. 

XXI. 

HE  would  wait  in  the  parlor  till  Miss  Mar's  re- 
turn, he  said  to  the  maid  who  admitted  him ;  and,  ac- 
cordingly, there  he  waited,  not  for  Miss  Mar,  but  for 
Stella,  until  she  came  down  from  her  study  in  the  twilight. 

His  presence  in  the  house  was  briefly  explained.  In- 
deed, it  had  become  so  frequent,  that  it  needed  uo  ex- 
planation. And  Stella  would  have  left  the  room  again 
presently,  after  a  few  courteous  words  befitting  her  place 
and  his  in  Miss  Judith's  house,  had  he  not  called  her 
attention  to  an  old  book  he  held  in  his  hand — a  child's 
book,  which  he  found  on  the  table — one  from  which  they 
had  read  together  in  years  long  gone. 


.  THE    PICTURE    BOOK.  123 

She  had  already  turned  towards  the  door,  but  he  spoke 
as  if  unobservant  of  this — indeed,  it  was  his  pleasure  con- 
stantly to  ignore  every  personal  slight  whatsoever  of 
which  Stella  was  guilty. 

His  words  arrested  her  steps,  and  she  retraced  them, 
more  curious  to  know  what  he  had  to  say  about  the  old 
book  than  she  herself  was  aware.  For  had  she  suspected 
the  extent  of  the  curiosity,  she  would  have  placed  herself 
at  once,  in  fear,  where  it  might  not  be  answered ;  that  is, 
beyond  the  sound  of  Layard's  voice.  For,  during  the 
last  few  days,  Stella  had,  according  to  her  own  belief, 
been  progressing  rapidly  in  the  subjugation  of  the  self 
that  the  world  had  fashioned — was  returning  to  the  prim- 
itive self  from  which  the  new  growth,  of  which  she  enter- 
tained high  hope,  was  to  spring.  Whatever  was  emo- 
tional within  her  she  was  endeavoring  to  subdue;  to  be 
rid  of  her  human,  and  rise  to  her  spiritual  self.  She 
mistook  the  curiosity  she  now  actually  felt  for  the  simple 
desire  to  test  herself,  and  that  indifferentism  towards  which 
she  was  aiming. 

The  old  book  of  which  he  spoke  she  received  from 
Layard's  hands — he  rising  to  give  it  her.  Within  his 
soul,  De  Lisle  smiled  to  see  the  cold  attention  with 
which  she  turned  the  leaves.  And  when  her  eyes  fell  on 
the  fly-leaf,  where,  in  her  own  childish  hand,  she  had 
testified  that  her  "  dear  friend,  De  Lisle  "  had  given  the 
book,  oh,  then,  he  smiled  to  see  the  smile  that  flitted 
over  her  handsome  face,  and  the  look,  half  pity,  half 
scorn,  of  that  old  self,  with  which  she  gave  it  back  to  him. 

"  How  long  it  was,"  she  said,  musing. 

"  It  made  me  almost  sad  thinking  of  it,  as  I  sat  here," 
returned  he.  '•  I  could  not  help  going  back  to  the  old 
times;  and  it  seems  as  though  I  had  been  living  them 
all  over  again.  Do  you  remember  the  day  when  I  gave 
you  this  book  ?" 


124  GETTING    ALONG. 

No,  she  did  not  remember. 

"  I  had  purchased  it  on  acconnt  of  the  pictures — not 
because  I  believed  their  import  in  those  days.  The  re- 
sponsibility is  yours  that  I  have  accepted  the  Church  of 
Rome  for  my  mother  at  this  day." 

"  You  have  accepted  it  ?"  said  Stella,  betrayed  into  an 
impulsive  utterance  of  her  surprise. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  he.  "  You  have  given  me 
a  mother." 

"  Never  !"  was  on  Stella  Gammon's  lip  ;  he  read  it  in 
her  eyes,  but  she  said  not  the  word.  With  her  the 
Church  was  a  vanished  difficulty,  and  she  duly  recalled 
herself  to  a  consistent  holding  of  this  fact.  De  Lisle 
could  not  quite  interpret  this  apparent  indifference.  If 
she  were  a  Protestant,  why  not  evince  some  compunction 
that  her  influence  had  led  him  into  the  error  from  which 
she  had  escaped  ?  But  she  showed  no  such  contrition, 
and  no  dismay,  in  view  of  the  fact  he  had  stated. 

';  I  remember,"  he  said,  in  a  softened  tone,  "  as  if  it 
were  a  thing  of  yesterday.  I  came  in — you  were  in  this 
very  room.  It  was  winter.  You  sat  by  the  fire  there 
on  the  hearth,  in  the  brownest  study  that  any  rosy- 
cheeked  little  girl  ever  had,  looking  into  so  bright  a 
blaze  as  that.  I  was  half-frozen,  for  there  was  a  dread- 
ful storm ;  and  I  ran  in  so  suddenly,  you  had  no  warning. 
Ah,  we  were  not  so  hedged  in  by  conventionalities  in 
those  days  as  we  are  now  !  You  were  glad  that  I  camo 
that  day,  for  you  smiled ;  and,  when  Stella  Gammon 
smiled,  it  was  because  she  thought  she  had  good  reason. 
Do  you  remember  ?" 

That  she  did  remember  he  needed  not  that  she  should 
say.  That  she  was  so  far  back  in  that  past  as  to  lose  a 
sense  of  the  speaker  of  the  present,  he  knew.  And  Layard 
went  on,  making  good  use  of  her  abstraction,  knowing 


A  CHILD'S  EXCUSE.  125 

what  word  would  recall  her  to  the  present  time,  place, 
and  opportunity. 

"  But  you  had  not  been  happy  before  I  came.  You 
had  wept,  and  the  doll,  for  whom  I  made  the  cradle  and 
bedstead,  lay  neglected  on  the  floor  beside  you.  Its  face 
was  wet  with  your  tears.  And  by-and-bye  you  told  me 
what  it  was  that  troubled  you — you  were  lonely — a  chance 
word  of  some  play-mate  had  taught  you  how  much  alone 
you  were.  I  did  not  seem  so  much  a  brother  to  you  now, 
nor  Miss  Mar  so  much  a  mother,  as  once.  You  were 
an  orphan,  you  were 'saying  to  yourself;  and  dreadful  it 
seemed  to  you — no  wonder  !  .  .  .  But  when  we  looked 
at  this  book,  we  forgot  all  that — no  common  virtue  was 
in  its  pages  — and  you  forgot  all  that  troubled  you.  See, 
I  colored  the  pictures — do  you  remember,  with  the  colors 
and  gum  water  which  you  brought  ?  Oh,  well — those  old 
times  are  dead  and  buried  ...  In  view  of  all  that  you 
have  done  for  me,  I  long  to  be  thought  of  as  your  friend 
again.  I  say  your  coldness  has  disturbed  and  grieved 
me.  I  have  often  felt,  since  my  return,  that  ordinary 
self-respect  demanded  that  I  should  say  little  to  you.  I 
do  not  wish  to  inflict  myself  on  any  one — pardon  me  that 
this  little  book  has  made  me  to  offend.  I  can  only  give 
a  child's  excuse,  I  could  n't  help  it." 

In  the  moment  that  De  Lisle  spoke  of  her  desolate 
childhood,  a  change  had  come  over  his  listener.  He  had 
opened  a  sealed  fountain  that  must  give  forth  waters  sweet 
and  bitter.  He  might  have  reproached  himself  with  cause 
for  that  distress  he  occasioned,  but  it  was  easier  for  him 
to  apologize  for  a  breach  of  etiquette  which  was  of  no 
moment  to  either  of  them,  as  he  well  knew.  Passing  by 
the  story  without  the  slightest  reference  to  it,  though  the 
arrow  was  lodged  in  her  heart,  and  they  both  knew  it,  she 
said: 

"  Have  you  become  a  Bomanist,  De  Lisle  ?" 


126  GETTING    ALONG. 

t£  I  have.  And  you  !  oh,  be  assured,  it  is  much  to  owe 
this  great  recovery  to  you  !  You  have  been  an  instrument 
used  for  this  event." 

At  this  she  merely  bowed.  She  had  no  joy  or  sorrow 
to  express.  No  denial  of  the  faith,  which  he  had  looked 
for  confidently,  nor  any  well-feigned  faith  on  account  of  his 
return  to  the  stronghold. 

There  was  no  room  for  his  consolations  or  arguments. 
She  said  nothing  to  which  he  might  reply ;  gave  him  no 
assurance  on  which  he  might  proceed.  But  his  purpose 
was  accomplished — he  knew  that  she  was  beyond  the 
sphere  in  which  his  labors  would  proceed.  And  he  was 
startled,  unprepared  for  her,  when  she  said,  in  a  voice  so 
firm,  so  resolute,  that  its  meaning  and  impulse  passed  his 
understanding. 

"  Now,  De  Lisle  Layard,  tell  me  why  you  have  re- 
curred to  those  events  so  long  passed  and  forgotten,  at 
least  by  me  ?" 

"  Pardon  me,  if  I  have  pained  you,"  said  he,  in  hasty 
apology. 

"  No— it 's  not  that  I  want,"  returned  Stella.  «  You 
meant  something  by  it,  of  course ;  but  I  do  not  quite  see 
what.  What  was  the  necessity  for  recalling  a  child's 
grief  to  a  woman's  memory,  when  the  cause  of  that  grief, 
though  not  the  suffering  itself,  remains  ?  Justify  your 
words,  if  you  can.  Perhaps  you  have  made  some  dis- 
covery, or  in  some  way  have  ascertained — " 

<:  I  would  to  Heaven  I  could  make  answer  according  to 
your  desire !"  exclaimed  Layard — and  in  earnest  he  said 
it.  He  would  like  well  to  arrive  at  the  solution  of  that 
mystery. 

"I  am,  perhaps,  not  conscious  of  a  desire  in  that  di- 
rection. You  have  adverted  to  what  you  were  not  bidden, 
with  premeditation  probably.  But  it  matters  not,"  said 
Stella,  carelessly. 


NOTHING  MORE  TO  FEAR.  127 

"  That  is  the  very  theory  I  have  been  maintaining." 
said  Layard.  "  Strong  must  be  the  affections  which 
centre  in  that  excellent  lady  to  whom  I  also  am  so  much 
indebted.  Her  beautiful  character  is  lustrous  with  rare 
excellences.  To  have  been  under  her  guardianship  leaves 
one  nothing  to  regret.  Parental  duties  may,  in  fact,  be 
performed  by  another  to  the — " 

"  You  speak  well,"  said  Stella  coldly 

"  And  truly,"  he  was  swift  to  say. 

"  Could  you  speak  well,  and  not  truly  ?"  replied  Stella, 
fixing  her  eyes  on  him — but  not  a  ray  of  suspicion 
beamed  from  them.  That,  if  anywhere,  was  darkling 
and  intensifying  in  her  heart,  beyond  his  ken. 

'•  Very  possibly — if  it  were  given  me  to  deceive  you," 
he  replied. 

"  Are  you  going  into  the  Church,  De  Lisle  ?"  She 
could  not  prevent  the  question. 

"  I  desire  to  do  so." 

"  Then  you  will,  of  course,  as  there  are  no  obstruc- 
tions." 

"  I  trust  there  are  none — I  believe  there  are  none  ex- 
cept such  as  I  may  find  in  my  own  will.  Our  wills  are 
stubborn  powers  to  deal  with,"  said  De  Lisle,  thought- 
fully. 

Here  the  conversation  ended.  Stella  rang  for  lights — 
and  when  they  were  brought,  she  sat  down  to  Miss  Mar's 
embroidery,  endeavoring  to  say  to  herself,  "  I  was  free 
before  now.  This  is  no  occasion  for  particular  elation. 
I  have  nothing  to  do  with  an  abstraction  like  the  Church. 
Protestant  and  Romanist  are  but  names — things  are  of  a 
different  description."  But,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  was 
aware  of  rejoicing  when  persuaded,  as  she  now  felt,  that 
she  was  indeed  free  from  him. 

And  when,  without  recurring  to  these  trains  of  thought, 
Layard  presently  withdrew,  before  Miss  Mar's  return, 


128  (SETTING    ALONG. 

and  Stella  laid  down  the  work  and  went  up  to  her  books, 
she  consigned  herself  to  them  anew,  with  an  enthusiasm 
and  earnestness  she  had  not  before  felt,  for  until  now,  in 
spite  of  herself,  the  act  had  seemed  compulsory,  resorted 
to  in  self-defence. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  fear.  Layard  would  go 
into  the  Church — become  a  priest  .  .  .  but  what  had  she 
to  do  with  him,  or  with  churches?  So  had  she  been 
held  a  captive  to  these  thoughts,  that  it  was  difficult  for 
her  to  accept  and  enjoy  her  freedom  from  them. 

But  with  all  this  rejoicing  in  a  new  sense  of  liberty, 
there  still  remained  the  thought  which  he  had  wakened. 
A  thought  it  was  which  never  had  slept  soundly  in  her 
brain  or  heart.  It  had  roused  to  trouble  her  many 
times  since  her  childhood,  and  more  than  once  she  had 
sought  an  exposition  of  the  mystery;  but  on  that  subject, 
to  every  hint  or  question,  Miss  Mar  was  deaf  and  dumb ; 
not  since  her  childhood  had  it  been  wakened  thus  ruth- 
lessly by  another.  And  now  that  she  thought  of  it,  the 
suspicion  was  aroused  that  there  was  something  back  of 
Layard's  words,  impelling  them  ;  it  might  even  be  that 
he  had  learned  recently,  or  that  he  had  always  known, 
something  of  her  father  or  her  mother.  She  wished  that 
she  had  asked  him  at  a  time  when  the  question  would 
have  come  most  naturally,  if  he  had  anything  to  say  to 
her  of  them. 

The  doubt  was  in  a  hot  bed  of  hope.  It  was  forced 
up — it  grew.  Once  she  took  up  her  pen  to  ask  him  the 
question ;  but  again  it  was  laid  aside  When  she  should 
see  Layard  to-morrow,  she  would  plainly  put  the  question. 
But  this  determination  she  in  turn  also  dropped  in  vexa- 
tion, that  these  things  and  Layard  himself,  through  them, 
had  stiir*so  much  power  to  trouble  her.  She  would  rise 
above  them — and  she  returned  to  the  book  she  was 
reading. 


NATIVE    AIR.  129 

But  ...  as  to  what  he  had  said  about  Miss  Mar,  that 
began  to  come  in  between  her  and  the  page — she  saw  it 
plainer  than  she  saw  the  print.  Miss  Judith  had  done 
everything  for  her,  that  she  allowed ;  but  it  was  not  true 
that  she  had  been  father  and  mother  to  her.  Grateful 
for  her  protection  and  care  was  Stella,  but  even  the 
nun  in  the  convent,  Theresa,  she  said  to  herself,  had 
awakened  deeper  affections,  and  had  dealt  towards  her 
more  lovingly,  more  maternally,  than  the  good  and  pious 
householder  in  John's  street. 

When  Stella  ceased  thinking  of  these  things,  which 
was  not  till  she  fell  asleep,  she  had  finally  resolved  on 
discovering  whether,  as  she  believed,  Layard  had  meant 
this  question  he  had  now  aroused  again,  to  come  to  her, 
as  it  had  come,  or  merely  as  the  freshener  of  the  old- 
time  recollections. 


XXII. 

IF  the  visit  of  the  Baldwins  to  Harlem  was  of  little 
moment,  save  as  provocative  of  speculation  in  the  minds 
of  Mrs.  Chilton  and  her  son,  and  of  interest  in  their  temp- 
oral fortunes  in  the  brain  of  old  Ishmael,  the  return  visit  to 
the  Hall  was  not  destined  to  terminate  so  fruitlessly. 

So  did  it  revive  the  drooping  spirits  of  Mrs.  Chilton — 
so  far-reaching  were  the  majiifold  satisfactions  it  gave 
birth  to,  that  she  went  home  in  a  frame  of  mind  such 
as  might  naturally  be  attributed  to  the  leader  of  a 
triumphal  procession.  She  had  breathed  her  native  air 
again;  such  perfumed  air  as.  floats  along  the  colon- 
nade, and  through  the  drawing-rooms  and  grapery  of 
the  great  house  of  St  John's — her  feet  have  trodden 
the  luxury  of  carpets  brought  from  the  looms  of  eastern 
lands — her  eyes  have  feasted  on  the  damask  draped 
6* 


130  GETTING    ALONG. 

windows,  and  the  costly  trifles  everywhere  apparent — 
she  has  sat  at  a  table  of  feasting  once  more,  waited  on 
like  a  lady.  And  after  all  this  exaltation,  poor  creature 
falling  into  ruins,  she  goes  not  back  repining  and  envi- 
ous to  the  miserable  cottage  with  worn-out  reminiscences, 
but  triumphant,  ns  I  said. 

For  the  cottage  was  soon  to  lose  its  occupants — and 
the  cottage  knew  it,  or  it  might  have  known  it — the 
Chilton's  were  going  to  St.  John's  to  live ;  and  the  cot- 
tage bore  on  its  face,  what  the  inmates,  two  of  them  at 
least,  bore  on  their  hearts  an  inscription  which  in  the  last 
case  would  probably  be  sooner  regarded  by  eyes  invisible, 
than  in  the  former  by  eyes  human,  "  This  House  for  Sale." 

It  had  been  entirely  arranged  on  the  visit.  Mr.  Bald- 
win had  a  vacant  house,  which  he  desired  to  have  occu- 
pied. Would  his  old  friend  relieve  him  of  the  care  of 
the  place  ?  And  he  had  a  friend,  an  engineer,  who  at 
that  time  wanted  a  young  man  in  his  office  to  learn  en- 
gineering. If  Horace,  his  old  friend's  son,  had  chosen 
architecture  for  his  profession,  the  best  foundation  that 
could  be  laid  for  his  studies  was  a  knowledge  of  engi- 
neering .  .  .  There  was  no  resistance  to  be  offered  to 
cogent  arguments  like  these.  And  if  there  had  been, 
who  was  to  offer  them  '.  Horace  regarded  his  fortune  as 
ma<Je  already,  and  sat  chatting  with  Isidore  as  if  assured 
of  the  fact.  Mrs.  Chilton  had  arrived  at  the  gate  of  her 
New  Jerusalem,  and  she  entered  in  with  all  the  dignity 
her  joy  allowed  .  .  . 

And  to  Leah's  eyes,  also,  the  prospect  was  passing  fair. 
For  her  mother's  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  Horace,  she 
rejoiced  in  the  brightening  prospects,  not  for  the  ease, 
nor  for  the  splendor  or  the  fashion,  but  because  the  way 
•was  opened  for  Horace  at  last,  and  now  his  genius  would 
show  itself  as  it  should — cramped,  cast  down,  no  longer  ! 
what  castle-building  was  there  ! 


THE    STO1UI    ALONG    THE    COAST.  131 

Before  leaving  St.  John's,  Mr.  Baldwin  "drove  with 
them  to  the  house  he  spoke  of,  which  was  not  far  from 
his  own.  It  had  been  left  on  his  hands  by  the  recent 
tenant,  his  debtor  to  a  large  amount,  furnished  from  top 
to  bottom ;  and  in  its  present  condition  he  offered  it  to 
Mrs.  Chilton,  rent  free  for  five  years,  until  Horace  should 
be  in  a  situation  to  make  whatever  other  arrangements 
they  might  deem  proper. 

Had  not  this  family  occasion  to  go  home  triumphant  ? 
Did  they  not  make  haste  to  escape  from  the  land  of  bond- 
age ?  And  are  we  not  glad  to  escape  from  Harlem 
\\fllh  them,  and  leave  the  poor  village  to  its  miserable 
fate? 

XXIII. 

WE  reverse  not  that  picture,  but  return  to  another. 

One  afternoon,  not  long  after  the  removal,  our  Susan, 
who  had  duly  participated  in  its  excitements,  and  borne 
alone  all  sorrows  and  regrets  pertaining  to  it,  went  up  to 
the  mill  from  the  boat-house,  having  seen  her  father  off 
in  his  boat.  He  was  going  seven  miles  up  the  beach,  to 
visit  an  old  neighbor,  who  was  ill. 

In  the  round  room  she  remained,  until  it  became  so 
dark  up  there,  and  the  wind  beat  so  violently  against  the 
old  walls,  that,  fearful  of  a  storm,  she  went  down  the 
stairs  to  the  door. 

There  a  terrific  sight  met  Susan  Dillon's  eyes.  The 
heavens  were  hidden  by  clouds.  Piled  up,  mountain-like, 
above  crag,  and  peak,  and  deep  ravine,  gray,  leaden,  white, 
and  black,  were  those  great  clouds — massive,  threaten- 
ing, and  terrible.  The  sea,  even  to  her  eyes,  was  one 
great  horror,  lashed  into  tumult  and  fury  by  the  winds, 
which  roared,  and  fought,  and  conquered,  and  fell,  re- 
treated, advanced  ;  and  their  crash  was  the  roar  of  battle. 


132  GETTING    ALONG. 

In  a  moifientary  exultation,  for  her  spirit  was  caught 
and  borne  forward  by  the  fury  of  the  scene,  Susan  stood 
on  the  rock,  watching  the  motion  of  the  waves — their 
conquests  and  overthrow.  But  there  caine  a  thought 
that  gave  terrors  in  place  of  delight  to  her  soul.  Her 
father,  the  old  man,  where  was  he  ?  Like  a  fiery  flash, 
the  thought  shot  through  her  heart.  If  he  were  out  at 
sea,  and  alone,  in  a  storm  like  that ! 

She  ran  to  the  cabin,  in  her  fear  and  hope.  He  had 
foreseen  the  storm,  it  might  be,  and  had  made  haste  to 
come  in  to  land  before  it  broke  .  .  .  He  was  not  there. 
From  the  house  she  went  back  to  the  point  where  he  w*s 
accustomed  to  moor  his  boats.  He  might  have  gone  into 
the  boat-house  to  rest,  after  the  fatigue  of  rowing  in  such 
a  storm  among  such  waves.  He  was  not  there.  There, 
while  the  darkness  deepened,  and  the  winds  raved  on,  she 
waited.  But  there  she  could  not  see — could  command 
no  view  of  the  way  by  which,  if  he  were  coming,  his 
progress  would  be  made.  And  once  more  she  ascended 
the  cliff.  The  wind  whirled  round  and  round  her ;  it 
dashed  against  her  in  such  fury  as  made  it  impossible  for 
her  to  brave  it  long;  and  she  crept  in  among  the  rocks, 
and,  clinging  to  them,  kept  her  look-out  toward  the  west. 
So  quick  was  her  trained  sight,  so  strained  its  vision  to  its 
utmost  now,  that  she  could  have  detected  a  bird  at  a  dis- 
tance which  would  have  rendered  a- ship  in  full  sail  in- 
visible to  a  less,  anxious  eye,  even  in  a  light  best  calcu- 
lated for  such  observation. 

There,  in  such  anxiety,  she  waited  what  seemed  an  in- 
terminable time.  At  last — she  started  up — yes!  it  was 
he — he  was  coming  in  his  boat,  riding  over  those  fierce 
waves — she  saw  him — and  he  was  alone. 

And  now  the  child's  anxiety  took  a  new  shape.  The 
rain  fell  fast  in  large  and  heavy  drops — the  rocks  were 
no  protection  from  it — in  a  moment  her  garments  were 


THE  CALM  AFTER  THE  STORM.          133 

drenched  by  the  rain.  But  fixed  as  by  fascination  her 
eyes  on  the  distance — and  nearer,  and  nearer,  yet  how 
far  off  still  !  the  boat  came.  No  longer  a  wavering  speck, 
now  seen  and  now  lost  to  sight.  No  longer  a  shapeless 
point ;  no  longer  a  bird  on  wing — but  the  boat  and  the 
oarsman  clearer  and  clearer.  An  old  man  toiling  with 
the  oar,  and  battling  with  the  element !  So  many 
years  it  had  known  him,  was  there  no  pity  for  the  gray- 
haired  fisherman,  that  the  waves  which  had  been  his  home 
and  his  love  so  long,  should  sport  so  madly  with  him — 
should  thus  strive  with  him  ?  He  had  grown  gray  among 
those  waves — they  had  served  him  according  to  the  desife 
of  his  heart,  but  now  what  were  they  doing  to  the  old 
man  ? 

XXIV. 

SHE  looked  up  into  the  face  of  the  blue  sky — and  not 
a  cloud  was  there. 

Whither  had  fled  the  terrific  darkness  on  which  she 
gazed  but  now  ?  Dazzling  with  the  light  of  the  setting 
sun  spread  the  immeasurable  vault  of  heaven.  The 
storm-birds  flitted  to  and  fro,  rejoicing.  The  havoc  was 
over  in  which  they  had  exulted;  the  great  deep  reflected 
all  that  upper  brightness,  and  tranquil  was  the  beating 
of  its  mighty  pulse. 

Susan  crept  out  from  the  place  of  shelter — but  she 
could  not  thus  emerge  from  the  dominion  of  her  hideous 
dream,  if  indeed  the  storm  of  the  past  hours  were  a 
dream ;  her  clothes  and  the  pools  among  the  rocks  told 
her  that  it  was  not.  She  stood  up,  leaning  for  support 
against  the  slippery  rocks;  but  when  she  tried  to  move, 
she  tottered  like  one  drunken.  A  moment  of  intensely 
agonizing  effort,  in  which  she  strove  to  realize  herself, 
passed.  She  sat  down  where  she  had  lain,  and  looked 


134  GETTING    ALONG. 

out  upon  the  sea.  Slowly  came  the  thought  back  to 
her. 

She  had  been  a  watcher  through  a  storm  .  .  .  She 
had  been  in  the  mill,  and  left  it  on  account  of  the  dark- 
ness .  .  .  but  at  what  moment  of  the  watch  had  she 
yielded  her  post,  and  failed  in  her  duty  ? 

Slowly,  point  by  point,  she  retraced  the  time  that  had 
elapsed  after  leaving  the  mill  until  horror  had  pressed 
down  her  eyelids  .  .  .  But  what  was  it  ?  the  fury  of 
the  storm  ?  the  terror  of  the  breaking  waves — the  driving 
rain  ?  Was  it  the  horror  of  such  fear  as  this  ?  .  .  .  had 
she  slept  ?  No  !  when  the  boat — the  boat  came  nearer, 
and  nearer,  and  nearer,  and  went  down  before  her  eyes, 
suddenly,  without  a  remedy,  while  she  could  almost  count 
the  strokes  of  his  oar  .  .  .  then  ! 

Floated  now  upon  the  cruel  waves,  in  the  dazzling  light 
of  that  evening's  sun,  a  broken  oar ! 

From  the  post  where  she  had  stationed  herself,  Susan 
crept  back  .  .  .  she  went  down  among  the  rocks — she 
went  back  with  the  faltering  step  of  decrepit  age,  to  the 
cabin,  and  there  sat  down  alone. 

How  long  a  time  went  on  she  could  not  know.  She 
had  lost  the  sense  of  time.  She  was  waiting  for  some 
one  to  come.  She  was  in  expectation ;  but  not  of  her  father. 

And  at  length  there  came,  breaking  upon  her  torpor,  a 
tread  of  feet — a  knocking  at  the  outer  door — and,  through 
the  darkness,  for  evening  had  set  in,  an  advance.  Look- 
ing up,  Susan  saw  the  young  son  of  the  fisherman  whom 
her  father  had  been  to  visit  that  day. 

He  came  in  as  if  in  haste,  anxious,  without  waiting  to 
be  bidden ;  and  sitting  down  upon  a  bench  opposite  to 
Susan,  he  made  his  unskilful  way  through  a  talk  about 
her  last  spring's  fever,  and  the  recent  storm,  to  the  theme 
which  weighed  upon  his  mind. 


SAM'S  PERPLEXITY.  135 

"  Have  you  seen  him  since  he  came  home  V"  said  he, 
never  taking  his  eyes  from  Susan. 

"  I  have  seen  him — yes,  Sam,"  answered  she, 

"  Then  the  old  man  's  safe  !"  exclaimed  the  boy,  unable 
to  conceal  the  relief  he  felt  now  that  his  suspense  was 
over. 

Then  did  Susan  tell  him  of  the  watch  that  she  had 
kept — of  the  tossed  and  struggling  boat — of  the  last 
glimpse  she  caught  of  it — -and  how  it  had  gone  down  in 
the  distance  amidst  those  raging  waves  before  her  sight. 
Briefly  she  told  him — her  words  were  few  and  discon- 
nected, but  they  told  plainly  her  meaning;  she  need  en- 
tertain no  doubts  concerning  them — and  while  she  spoke 
Sam  looked  at  her  as  if  he  could  not  believe  either  his 
ears  or  eyes. 

l-  What  did  you  do  after  that?"  asked  he. 

"  I  came  home — when  I  woke." 

"  Woke  !  you  did  n't  go  to  sleep  there  in  the  storm  !" 

Sam's  fear  and  suspicions  gave  him  courage.  He  went 
up  to  Susan — laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"  Why,  you  're  soaking  wet !"  he  exclaimed.  <:  It  '11 
kill  you.  You  're  ravin'  distracted,  Susan — no,  you  aint, 
but  you  've  lost  your  senses.  Look  a-here !  oh,  Lord  ! 
what  am  I  to  do  with  you,  and  the  night  here  too !  Oh ! 
.  .  .  oh !  what  a  night's  work !  See  here,  Susan," 
grasping  her  arm  yet  more  firmly  in  his  perplexity  and 
distress,  "  what  '11  I  do  ?  If  you  '11  let  me  help  you  up 
to  our  house,  I  've  got  niy  boat — "  Susan  drew  back  with 
a  shudder. 

"  Oh,  no,  Sam,  I  can't,"  she  said,  faintly. 

"  You  're  sick,  Miss  Susan,  or  you  're  going  to  be.  If  I 
could  find  somebody,  or  do  something — I  '11  have  to  go, 
I  guess,  for  mother.  Oh,  dear !  Miss  Susan,  I  can't  tell 
what  to  do,  can  you  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Susan  ;  but  in  so  faint  a  tone,  that 


130  GETTING    ALONG. 

Sam  did  not  hear  her ;  the  poor  fellow  dropped  her  arm 
from  his  grasp,  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  despairing- 
ly thrust  his  hand  through  his  bushy  locks,  and  looked  at 
Susan. 

"  I  wish  your  mother  were  here,  Sam."  Susan  roused 
herself  to  say.  "  If  you  could  make  up  a  fire — and 
inaybe  you  'd  run  for  somebody  somewhere.  I  'm  not 
afraid — to — stay  alone.  I  'm  used — to  it — don't  mind 
me,  Sam." 

Delighted  that  there  was  anything  he  could  do,  Sam 
bustled  about  and  built  a  fire,  and  was  ready  in  a  few 
minutes  to  set  out  for  his  mother.  Bat  as  he  took  up  his 
lantern  he  turned  back  again  from  the  door — 

"  It  seems  dreadful  strange  to  leave  you  so.  Blast 
me,  Susan,  if  I  can  do  it  !" 

"  Oh,  yes,  if  you  please,"  said  Susan  ;  but  she  spoke 
as  in  a  dream — her  eyes  were  closed,  and  she  did  not  open 
them. 

"  No,  I  can't,"  said  Sam,  resolutely  putting  down  the 
lantern  again.  -;  Not  till  you  go  to  bed  first.  I  '11  help 
you  in,  and  be  off  like  a  streak." 

The  wisdom  of  this  proposition  awkwardly  urged,  and 
hardly  above  the  boy's  breath,  seemed  to  make  an  im- 
pression on  Susan.  She  tried  to  rise  in  compliance  with 
his  suggestion,  but  could  not,  and  the  young  sailor  in  des- 
peration, caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Here,  you  're  going  to  tumble  over,"  cried  he.  and  lie 
carried  her  in  his  arms,  now  insensible,  to  her  bed. 

And  then,  instead  of  going  away  in  search  of  other 
help,  until  morning  he  was  laboring,  at  his  wit's  end,  to 
revive  and  strengthen  Susan.  But  his  utmost  success 
was  to  rouse  her  to  consciousness  for  a  moment ;  she  would 
constantly  sink  again  into  insensibility,  and  he  dared  not 
leave  her. 

With  the  day-dawn  his  courage  revived  and  he  started 


FATHERLESS.  137 

for  home.  Never  was  a  swifter  voyage  made  than  his. 
In  an  hour  after  he  left  Susan's  side,  long  before  sun- 
rise, five  boats,  filled  with  fishermen,  to  whom  intelligence 
of  old  Walter's  loss  had  been  communicated,  were  mov- 
ing rapidly  over  the  sea  to  the  lonely  beach  where  Dillon's 
solitary  cabin  stood. 

XXV. 

NOTHING  of  all  this  knew  Susan.  She  saw  not  the 
breaking  day — waited  not  for  the  rising  sun.  Saw  not 
the  flashing  of  the  swiftly-plied  oars,  saw  not  the  sad  faces 
of  the  old  seamen  as  they  came  to  shore,  drew  their  boats 
inland,  and  walked  slowly,  with  heavy  hearts,  up  to  the 
cabin-door.  Neither  heard  she  the  softest  tread  within 
the  house,  nor  the  pitying  face  of  the  tender  hearted  wo- 
man who  bent  over  her  ;  heard  not  the  smothered  words 
she  spoke  to  those  waiting  without  to  learn  how  it  went 
on  with  poor  Susan ;  knew  not  the  gentle  sympathy  with 
which  her  name  passed  from  lip  to  lip  among  those  weather- 
beaten  men. 

Unconsciou^of  all  living  things,  all  mortal  joys  and  loss- 
es, Susan  lay,  worn  out  with  the  violence  of  her  exposure 
and  the  extremity  of  her  grief;  the  faint  pulse  and  heart- 
beat told  how  languidly  the  springs  of  life  were  moving. 

Towards  noon  the  sea  was  alive  with  boats,  the  shore 
with  men,  for  the  news  of  Dillon's  loss  had  spread  far 
along  the  coast,  and  he  was  as  a  patriarch  among  the  fish- 
ermen, the  oldest  of  them  all,  and  too  the  most  venerated 
by  mate  and  boy.  And  while  these  were  gathering,  Sam 
;rode  down  from  St.  John's  in  the  coachman's  box  of  Mr. 
Baldwin's  carriage,  for  to  St.  John's  he  went  at  his  moth- 
er's instigation,  to  summon  Ishmael  to  the  beach. 

Falcon  and  the  family  physician  came  with  Mr.  Bald- 
win. Of  all  this,  of  the  sorrow  of  Ishmael's  heart,  and 


138  GETTING    ALONG. 

those  other  thoughts  and  expectations  which,  in  spite  of 
himself,  would  intrude  upon  the  mind  of  Dillon's  old 
friend,  even  in  such  an  hour  as  this — of  Mr.  Falcon's 
pity  and  unspoken  sympathy — of  the  physician's  presence 
and  counsel,  nothing  of  all  this  knew  Susan;  and  no  sense 
had  she  now  of  her  loss,  which  should  change  the  drift 
of  all  her  future  and  the  prospect  of  all  her  past. 

In  this  unconsciousness  was  she  borne  away.  Not 
knowing  whither  she  went,  she  was  taken  from  her  father's 
house,  and  in  the  carriage  borne  up  to  her  new  home, 
that,  when  she  wakened,  as  Mr.  Baldwin  urged,  and  the 
physician  counselled,  she  might  be  beyond  the  sight  and 
sound  of  the  sea.  In  the  shadow  of  night  she  was  taken 
into  the  Hall,  and  up  to  the  chamber  which  was  hence- 
forth to  bear  her  name. 

/Darkness  is  around  her,  and  the  fragrance  of  flowers, 
ami  security  and  beauty — she  knows  it  not.  All  night  a 
watcher  sits  beside  her  bed,  and  soothes  her  when  she 
stirs,  gives  answer  to  her  wandering  thoughts  when  she 
utters  them  ;  and  the  morning  comes  again,  the  noon,  the 
night;  another,  and  another,  and  another  day,  and  she 
sees  not  the  glory,  understands  not  the  pain  that  is  in 
them,  and  will  be  in  them  when  she  wakes  again  to  life, 
if  ever  again  she  wakes.  ^ 

Your  wish  is  granted,  Susan  :  you  are  here,  and  at 
Home ! 

When  you  awake,  if  you  waken,  will  you  wonder  and 
remember  your  wish  ?  and  ask,  <:  Oh  life,  is  it  thus  thou 
fulfillest  the  dreaming  delight,  the  unconscious  prayers 
of  youth  I—Is  all  the  joy  of  Day  brought  forth  from  the 
Night  of  anguish?') 

Isidore  sits  in  her  boudoir,  and  at  intervals  thinks  of 
Susan.  Horace  Chilton  presently  is  coming  to  drive  out 
with  her — and  she  has  just  sealed  her  answer  to  the  first 
letter  written  by  the  Colonel  since  he  left  St.  John's — 


MOURNING  WITH  THE  MOURNER.         139 

for  he  had  received  his  orders,  and  was  now  on  his  way 
to  a  distant  post.  Poor  Susan !  Isidore  thinks  in  these 
intervals — what  a  dreadful  blow  for  her  !  But  the  fisher- 
man was  poor  and  old,  and  his  strength  was  failing  him  ; 
he  could  do  nothing  for  his  child — if  events  had  taken 
a  natural  course,  he  must  ere  long  have  given  up  tlie 
ghost,  and  left  Susan  desolate.  She  will  now  live  at  the 
Hall,  and  be  educated,  and  have  a  very  different  fate 
from  what  she  would  have  had  but  for  this  shocking 
accident.  It  will  be  a  very  good  thing  besides—  she  con- 
tinues to  think,  for  Horace  has  not  yet  come — a  very 
fortunate  thing  for  Clarence,  especially  if  I  should  hap- 
pen to  go  away  in  haste — he  will  have  a  sister ;  and 
father  really  talks  quite  pathetically  about  his  daughter 
Susan.  I  wonder  if  he  realty  means  that  .  .  .  And  just 
here  Isidore's  meditation  is  broken  by  the  arrival  of 
Horace  Chilton,  who  in  the  short  time  that  has  elapsed 
since  the  removal  from  Harlem  to  St.  John's,  and  the 
departure  of  the  Colonel,  has  proved  himself  a  much 
more  valuable  aid  to  Isidore  than  to  the  Engineer,  who 
was  so  greatly  in  need  of  a  hand  in  his  office. 

Deeply  troubled  with  the  thought  of  Susan's  new 
calamity,  and  wondering  how  she  would  bear  it,  and  deter- 
mining to  make  her  recovery  and  its  phases  matter  of 
special  contemplation  when  the  proper  time  should  come, 
David  Baldwin  absented  himself  from  his  club  on  the 
day  after  Susan's  arrival  at  the  Hall ;  and  in  place  of  all 
gayer  sports  drove  Layard  quietly  into  the  country  after 
his  favorite  pony.  And  during  the  drive  he  talked,  not 
very  profoundly,  but  with  more  than  usual  feeling,  of 
Layard's  prospects  in  as  far  as  he  felt  at  liberty  to  do  so, 
and  he  came  back  from  his  drive  quite  persuaded  that 
Layard,  the  good  fellow,  the  fine  fellow,  was  bent  on  self- 
destruction — would  make  a  wreck  of  his  fine  abilities  and 
prospects,  but  bound  by  promises,  pledged  in  his  heart, 


140         .  GETTING    ALONG. 

to  help  him  on  in  his  career  by  every  means  within  his 
reach. 

Up  in  the  hall,  near  the  door  of  Susan's  chamber,  stood 
Clarence  Baldwin,  to  whom  Mr.  Falcon  had  communi- 
cated the  nature  of  the  strange  night  arrival.  There, 
beside  that  door,  he  had  stationed  himself — and  there  all 
day  he  watched  and  waited ;  and  not  far  away  in  the  same 
hall  was  Mr.  Falcon,  his  attention  fixed,  as  it  would  seem, 
on  the  book  open  before  him  .  .  .  but,  it  was  not  so,  not  a 
gesture  or  motion  of  Clarence  escaped  him.  He  observed 
the  settled  sadness  of  the  young  face,  its  unchanging  alert- 
ness of  expression.  Why  he  stood  there,  Clarence  well 
understood.  Susy  was  within  that  chamber — was  ill — 
suffering — she  had  lost  her  father.  These  facts  Mr. 
Falcon  had  communicated  to  him,  and  so  vivid  was  the 
impression  they  had  made,  that  there  seemed  to  be  no 
possibility  of  their  passing  away  again.  He  lost  not  the 
thought  while  he  stood  there,  not  even  for  a  moment. 

No  person  that  came  from  the  chamber  passed  un- 
noticed, no  one  entered  it  unchallenged  by  him.  And 
when  in  reply  to  his  questions,  he  was  told,  "  she  sleeps 
sweetly,"  "  she  is  quiet,"  "  she  will  be  better  soon  ;"  he 
smiled,  and  still  maintained  his  watch. 


XXVI. 

WHEN  Vane  and  Lucia  Tree  went  into  the  unpretend- 
ing tenement  now  occupied  by  the  fallen  family,  passing 
through  the  street  door  immediately  into  the  small  room 
where  Mr.  Tree  sat  copying  the  papers  Will  had  brought 
home  from  the  office,  they  did  not  meet  the  most  encour- 
aging, most  welcome  of  glances  from  the  bleared  and 
weary  eyes  which  for  a  moment  lifted  in  salutation,  and 
then  drooped  to  their  work  again. 


THE    DUX.  141 

Apparently  unobservant  of  the  uncourtcous  reception, 
or  in  reality  pre-occupied  with  what  he  had  himself  to  say 
and  do,  Vane  advanced  towards  the  table  and  Mr.  Tree, 
with  an  open  but  respectful  address. 

"  A  dun  J  confound  the  fellow !"  muttered  Tree,  and 
there  was  quite  as  much  in  his  look  as  in  his  thought,  as 
he  glanced  towards  the  youth. 

"  Can't  pay  you  to-day,  sir.  I  have  n't  a  copper  by  me. 
Call  again  sir,"  said  he,  never  looking  up ;  doggedly  and 
angrily  he  spoke ;  as  if  he  had  been  already  worried  down 
by  a  pack  of  creditors,  and  felt  now  disposed  to  turn  and 
face  them. 

"  Pay,  sir  !  your  credit  is  of  the  best — if  you  really  owe 
me  anything.  I  keep  no  ledger  in  my  desk  or  my  head." 

Tree  looked  up  now,  leaning  back  in  his  chair — his 
features  contracted  grimly — as  if  he  would  smile,  but  had 
forgotten  how.  He  laid  down  his  pen,  and  pushing  his 
scanty  gray  locks  from  his  forehead,  said,  in  his  old  sub- 
dued, downcast  way : 

"  Well,  Vane,  excuse  me — you  have  a-debt  against  me. 
It  is  fortunate  that  you  do  not  want  it  to-day,  for  I — sit 
down,  will  you?  Lucia,  is  that  you?  bring  a  chair  for 
Mr.  Vane.  How  are  you  getting  on  now-a-days,  sir  ?" — 
brightening  up  with  the  last  words. 

"  I  have  left  off  my  trade,  sir,  and  taken  to  canvas 
painting,"  said  Vane,  answering  the  question  promptly, 
as  if  he  considered  it  a  genuine^  friendly  inquiry,  demand- 
ing a  reply,  and  not  a  mere  formal  civility. 

"Glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mr.  Tree,  stiffly;  but  he 
qualified  the  remark,  "  if  you  don't  starve  on  it." 

"  That  is  the  very  point  on  which  I  would  like  your 

candid  opinion,  sir,"  said  Vane,  entering  on  the  subject 

with  his  customary  frankness  and   hearty  earnestness — 

continuing  to  stand,  though  Lucia  had  brought  the  chair 

•  her  father  ordered  for  him. 


142  GETTING    ALONG. 

Tree  looked  at  Vane  as  if  in  a  bewildered  and  rather 
uncomfortable  mood  of  mind ;  he  took  up  his  pen  and 
laid  it  down  again,  and  moved  about  restlessly  in  his 
chair — at  last  he  said  : 

"  I  'm  no  judge  of  fine  arts — I  have  no  opinions." 

"  But  you  will  come  and  see  my  work,  I  hope,"  said 
Vane.  "  I  would  be  glad  to  have  you  come  down  with 
your  daughter,  if  you  find  time,  to  look  at  it." 

Tree  looked  at  his  daughter  still  more  bewildered ;  he 
could  not  understand  what  the  youug  fellow  wanted,-  nor 
what  he  was  talking  about.  He  was,  for  himself,  a  fallen 
man — there  was  nothing  to  be  had  of  him  ;  he  could  not 
advance  the  fortunes  of  this  young  man  in  any  way,  and, 
as  he  said,  he  was  no  judge  of  the  fine  arts. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  he,  for  he  could  think  of  nothing  else 
to  say. 

But  Vane,  with  a  courteous  gesture,  declined  the  re- 
peated invitations  ;  and,  still  standing,  went  on  speaking 
rapidly. 

"  I  hardly  dare  think  how  you'll  take  it,  sir;  but  what 
I  came  for  was  to  ask  you  if  you  'd  any  objections  to  my 
being  a  friend  of  your  family  ?" 

"  What  ?"  said  Tree.  In  the  very  directness  with  which 
Vane  made  known  his  business  there  was,  of  itself,  suffi- 
cient to  bewilder  a  man  so  unaccustomed  to  anything  like 
open  dealing  with  his  fellows. 

"  Your  daughter — "  a  light  seemed  here  to  illuminate 
the  old  man,  for  he  suddenly  grew  very  red  in  the  face, 
and  looked  hurriedly  at  Lucia,  taking  up  his  pen  again. 

"  Your  daughter,"  continued  Vane,  who  for  a  moment 
hesitated  when  he  observed  the  disturbance  his  words  oc- 
casioned in  the  listener,  "  likes  paintings,  and  she  told 
me  that  she  had  a  mind  to  be  an  artist.  I  was  so  for- 
tunate as  to  have  some  work  on  hand  that  was  given  me 
to  do,  and  I  have  passed  it  over  to  her ;  she  will  do  it 


MB.  TREE'S  ADVICE.  143 

better  than  I,  for  she  has  more  time,  and  more  taste,  too, 
I  think,  for  such  things.  I  have  no  friends  among  artists 
in  this  city — I  want  none ;  but  I  would  like  to  have 
friends  here  in  this  house,  sir.  I  can  help  your  daughter 
along,  and  she  can  help  me.  Perhaps  you  would  think 
it  an  objection  because  I  had  a  trade,  and  worked  at  it 
throughout  St.  John's.  Some  men  would.  If  that  is 
your  only  objection — but  I  feel  ashamed  to  talk  about  it, 
the  trade  and  I  have  been  such  good  friends,  and  I  shall 
take  to  it  again  if  I  cannot  do  better — I  was  not  brought 
up  with  any  idea  of  such  a  pursuit.  But  it  became  my 
duty  to  take  care  of  myself,  and  I  always  meant  to  be 
an  artist :  thus  I  learned  to  be  a  house-painter.  Pro- 
fessor Layard,  at  the  college,  can  tell  you  about  it,  sir, 
how  it  happened." 

Here  he  paused ;  but  Mr.  Tree  sat  looking  at  him, 
apparently  never  contemplating  the  possibility  of  a  re- 
sponse. 

"  Your  daughter,"  therefore  continued  Vane,  hurried- 
ly returning  to  that  point,  to  him  the  most  important, 
that  Tree  might  understand  what  was  asked  of  him  ; 
"  your  daughter  and  I  could  help  each  other  on  in  our 
work.  We  can  see  each  other's  faults,  and  point  them 
out.  If  you  are  willing  it — " 

« It  what  ?" 

"  I  should  say  you  were  my  benefactor,  sir.  I  have 
had  already  an  offer  of  patronage,  but  that  I  do  not  want. 
But  I  have  no  home.  I  would  like  to  be  able  to  think 
of  some  place  in  this  city  as  a  house  holding  friends  of 
mine." 

"  Humph,"  said  Mr.  Tree,  with  a  bitter  smile ;  and 
for  a  moment  he  was  silent.  "  Take  my  advice,"  he  re- 
sumed, "and  keep  to  your  work,  and  have  as  few  thoughts 
in  your  head  about  anything  further  as  you  can  get  along 
with.  What  !  cheat  yourself  in  the  beginning  with  fine 


144  GETTING    ALONG. 

notions  about  friends — they  are  no  'better  in  civilized 
countries  than  among  savages;  if  you  get  into  trouble, 
your  friends  will  rob  you  of  what  the  law- leaves.  As  for 
a  home — Vane,  I  'in  an  old  man,  but  I  never  saw  one 
yet." 

'£Sir,  I  had  a  home  once,  for  I  had  a  mother !  and  ic 
is  the  memory  of  her  that  compels  me  to  believe  that  I 
shall  yet  find  another.  May  I,  then,  sometimes  come 
here  to  rest,  and  not  be  looked  at  as  an  intruder  ?  May  I 
think  of  your  house,  sir,  as  a  summer-house  in  a  garden, 
where  I  may  sit  down  among  my  neighbors,  and  find  re- 
freshment ?" 

"  You  may  come,  if  you  think  it  will  be  any  comfort," 
said  Mr.  Tree,  heavily.  "  I  certainly  respect  you  very 
highly,  and  if  I  declined  your  visits  you  might  think 
otherwise ;  of  course,  come — but  what  you  will  find,  that 
is  your  own  look  out ;  I  guarantee  nothing,  sir.  We  are 
poor  and  in  disrepute,  and,  for  a  rising  young  man,  not 
the  most  available  people  I  should  say." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Vane,  now  dropping  into  the  chair 
that  stood  waiting  for  him.  "  You  should  say  nothing 
of  the  kind.  You  make  me  happy  by  allowing  me  to 
come,  and  to  think  of  you  all.  I  shall  be  helped  on  won- 
derfully in  my  work  now." 

"  But  I  told  you  before,"  said  Tree,  again  mistaking 
the  speaker,  "  I  'm  no  judge  of  the  fine  arts.5' 

"  Oh  I  meant  not  that — it  makes  a  man  cheerfuller  to 
have  a  friend  and  a  home  in  tlie  mind.  I  could  never 
get  on  at  all  without  them.  (You  know  how  much  swifter 
and  better  the  hand  works  when  the  heart  is  happy, 
sir  ?" 

Poor  Mr.  Tree  knew  nothing  of  the  sort ;  he  may,  in 

his  long  dolorous  striving  and  unhappy  career,  have  had 
some  remote  suspicion  of  the  existence  of  some  such 
truth  as  this,  but  no  experimental  knowledge. 


NOT    BY    BREAD    ALOI?E.  145 

He  did  not  reply,  but  Lucia  did.  "  Oh  yes,  that  is 
so  true,  Mr.  Vane." 

Her  sweet  and  sincere  voice  seemed  to  revive  the 
father's  heart ;  he  appeared  to  get  a  fairer  glimpse  into 
the  world  where  these  young  people  were  abiding,  when 
he  looked  at  it  through  his  daughter's  eyes,  than  he 
could  by  the  painter's  speech.  And  he  said  : 

"  And  you  expect  to  make  a  good  artist,  I  suppose — 
to  make  a  great  deal  of  money  and  fame  ?" 

For  an  instant  Vane's  face  was  slightly  shadowed,  but 
he  spoke  out  sincerely  and  well : 

<;  Oh  that  I  cannot  tell — but  I  mean  to  be  a  faithful 
man,  sir." 

"  Of  course  you  will  be  rich  and  famous ; — there  's- 
nothing  to  hinder  you  that  I  can  see." 

Vane  hesitated — evidently  Lucia's  father  did  not  un- 
derstand him.  Then  he  spoke — valiantly  it  came  forth — 
art  from  his  hands  must  receive  all  precedence  and 
honor,  and  this  old  man  listening  must  see  that  neither 
fame  nor  money  were  the  ends  he  sought. 

"  But  that  would  not  please  me  so  well,  Mr.  Tree,  as 
other  things,"  he  paused  a  second,  glanced  at  Lucia — in 
that  bright  face  he  read  a  perfect  understanding  and  ap- 
proval— but  only  doubt  in  the  old  man's.  "  I  should  con- 
sider fame  disgrace,  if  I  got  it  without  fairly  earning  it — 
and  I  hardly  believe  I  shall  ever  do  anything  that  I 
think  great  and  find  other  people  agree  about  it  with  me. 
I  should  be  ashamed  to  make  money  by  my  work  be- 
cause it  was  the  fashion,  or  for  some  other  reason  as  poor 
as  that.  I  can  paint  portraits.  I  have  done  so  some- 
times, but  that  was  when  I  was  a  foolish,  ignorant  fellow, 
or  I  could  not  have  been  so  profane  in  handling  my  pen- 
cils. I  could  make  a  good  living  by  painting  portraits — 
but  I  can  do  better  work  than  that,  and  I  am  content  to 

VOL.    II,  7 


146  GETTING    ALONG. 

be  poor,  and  to  work  alone  a  long  time  rather  than  get 
rich  in  that  way." 

This  was  so  far  out  of  Mr.  Tree's  way  of  looking  at 
things,  so  diverse  from  his  philosophy,  that  he  could  not 
at  all  appreciate  it.  And  yet  far  wrong  as  he  believed 
the  speaker  to  be,  a  suspicion  floated  intangible,  and  not 
to  be  arrested  as  yet  and  fairly  surveyed,  floated  through 
his  mind  that  this  voice  and  presence  was  wise,  as  it  was 
beyond  question  happy. 

"  It  certainly  is  true,"  said  Lucia,  speaking  in  a  low 
and  earnest  voice,  as  if  in  the  strength  of  a  deliberate 
conviction  ;  '•  it  certainly  is  true,"  she  repeated,  "  fortune 
and  fame  are  not  the  thing — but  to  do  with  your  might 
what  your  hands  find  to  do." 

"  And  enjoy  in  your  heart  whatever  is  lovely  or  of 
good  report,"  added  Vane. 

"  Young  people,"  said  Mr.  Tree  in  a  hopeless  sort  of 
way,  looking  from  Vane  to  his  daughter  as  though  ho 
despaired  of  understanding  them,  "  you  may  be  all  right, 
and  I  may  be  all  wrong.  I  dare  say  it  must  be  so — 
but,  really  you  both  seem  to  be  looking  at  this  world 
in  a  very,  very  peculiar  sort  of  way.  It  never  appeared 
to  me  exactly  like — like  what  you  seem  to  think  it  is. 
I,  for  my  part,  have  found  it  a  hard,  rubbing  world,  and 
full  of  toil  and  trouble." 

"  And  so  it  is.  sir,"  replied  Vane.  "  And  everybody 
ought  to  be  in  earnest — but  not  in  earnest  to  eat  each 
other  up.  There  is  room  enough,  sir,  for  us  all,  and 
work  enough  for  us  all  to  do,  and  the  earth  can  be  made 
to  produce  so  much  that  none  shall  die  of  hunger.  But 
we  make  sucli  a  selfish,  cold-blooded  business  of  labor  ! 
(I  never  could  see,  sir,  why,  when  the  sun  shines  in  the 
world,  and  makes  a  fair  place  of  it,  we  should  not  have  a 
sun  shining  in  our  hearts,  making  better  beauty  there.11*" 

"  What  sun  ?"  asked  Tree   almost  sternly.     So  real 


VANE'S  SUCCESS  AND  FAILUKE.  147 

seemed  this  possession  of  joy  in  the  young  painter's 
heart,  he  felt  as  if  defrauded  in  his  strange  inability  to 
understand  it. 

"  The  sun  of  Peace,"  said  Vane.  "  It  can  make  even 
a  better  world  within  us  than  we  see  around  us." 

What  perfect  acquiescence  in  all  this  he  was  advancing 
shone  from  Lucia's  face  !  what  blank  dismay  was  in  the 
old  man's  visage  !  Somehow  he  had  listened  to  preach- 
ing for  more  than  half  a  century,  but  the  gospel  had 
never  come  to  him  in  this  form  before — never  before 
had  it  appealed  to  him  as  pertaining  to  the  hourly  life  of 
men — the  guide  of  thought  and  aspiration — the  perfect 
satisfaction — the  fulness  of  joy ;  the  philosophy  of  life 
of  which  all  other  philosophies  are  the  lower  and  marred 
forms. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Tree,  thoughtfully  and  sadly. 
"  Perhaps  you  are  right — I  hope  you  are — I  hope  the 
policy  is  one  that  won't  run  out  before  you  are  half 
through  with  your  life.  I  never  saw  a  young  man  of 
talent  and  spirit  before  but  believed  that  the  way  to  get 
on  in  this  world  was  to  work  like  the  devil.  I  never  saw 
one  that  was  ambitious,  but  he  gave  himself  up  to  work, 
and  thought  of  nothing  else  but  work — you  think  of 
everything  else  it  appears.  I  hope  you  will  succeed,"  he 
concluded,  doubtingly. 

"  And  if  I  do  not  succeed,  as  you  call  it,"  said  Yane, 
cheerfully,  "  you  must  never  think  that  I  have  failed.  I 
will  do  my  best  here  in  this  life,  if  I  can ;  but  I  know  I 
shall  do  far  better  hereafter.  A  thousand  things  may 
prevent  me  here,  but  nothing  can  prevent  me  there. 
This  life  is  not  everything  to  me.  The  old  patriarchs 
were  honest;  they  confessed  that  they  were  strangers 
and  pilgrims  on  the  earth,  and  wisely  sought  a  better 
country.  And  in  that  respect  we  can  have  no  more 
trustworthy  guides  than  those  Hebrews.  But  that  does 


148  GETTING    ALONG. 

not  binder  our  making  a  happy  journey  of  it,  and  we 
shall  then  be  in  all  the  better  condition  for  our  arrival." 

"  A.h,"  said  Tree,  despondingly,  shaking  his  head,  and 
balancing  his  pen  on  his  finger,  "  that  is  the  voice  of 
youth  and  strength — and  faith  that  has  not  been  broken 
— and  courage  that  bids  fair  to  hold  out  a  long  way. 
Look  at  me,  sir — I  don't  know  that  I  had  such  singular 
thoughts  as  you  seem  to  have  about  the  business  of  life, 
but  I  will  venture  to  say  that  I  started  out  as  determined 
to  make  much  of  myself,  and  do  well,  and  succeed,  as  any 
young  man  that  ever  lived ;  but  now  I  am  old,  and  worn 
out.  and  tired  of  all  things,  and  unfit  for  enjoyment,  and 
have  failed  in  everything." 

Vane  was  silent;  he  would  not  insult  a  spirit  so 
lamenting,  by  consolations  which  it  could  not — certainly 
not  as  yet — receive. 

The  old  man  again  took  up  his  pen,  which  he  had 
dropped  in  the  agitation  of  his  speech,  and  Vane's  eyes 
fell  on  the  heap  of  papers  lying  before  him ;  and,  rising 
quickly,  he  said : 

"  I  have  intruded  too  long,  sir;  if  you  will  promise  to 
bring  your  daughter  down  to  my  room,  I  will  show  the 
picture." 

With  a  relieved  look  at  the  prospect  of  being  left 
alone  again,  Mr.  Tree  gave  the  promise,  asked  Vane's 
address;  and  the  young  man,  with  another  word  to 
Lucia,  departed. 

* 

When  her  father  was  alone,  long  after  both  Lucia  and 
Vane  had  left  him,  he  sat  in  the  same  position  before  his 
table  as  that  in  which  they  found  him,  bowed  over  the 
many  papers,  doing  a  machine's  work;  but  no  mechanic 
was  he,  for  faster  than  his  unflagging  hand  his  brain 
worked.  Vane's  words  ran  to  and  fro  among  the  princi- 
ples of  thought  and  action  that  were  confronting  them, 


GLIMMERINGS    OF    LIGHT.  149 

accusing  them,  unmasking,  entreating  them  ;  and  the  ray 
of  light  along  which  moved  those  words  grew  broader 
and  brighter  ;  and  though  he  said  to  himself,  "  Vane  talks 
like  a  boy,  as  he  is — he  will  find  a  different  sort  of  world 
to  work  in  than  he  thinks,"  close  upon  these  words  fol- 
lowed the  answering  argument,  "  What  has  he  been 
doing  these  eight  years  but  labor  among  men,  working 
for  his  daily  bread  ;  and  he  speaks  like  one  who  speaks 
from  knowledge  and  large  experience." 

Contrasting  his  barren  career,  its  continually  recurring 
waste  places,  its  great  distresses,  its  abiding  troubles,  and 
its  few  and  paltry  satisfactions — looking  back  on  a  lost 
half  century,  that  had  brought  forth  no  pleasant  nor  any 
rich  return;  contrasting  his  life  with  even  the  few  years  of 
Vane's — his  strange  ambition  and  content  with  simple 
things — an  ambition  that  spanned  the  gulf  of  death,  and 
looked  into  eternity,  and  found  there,  in  that  dark  un- 
known, opportunity  and  realization — simple  things,  that 
found  an  answer  to  every  demand  in  the  daily  life,  con- 
trasting these  facts  of  Vane's  life  with  those  of  his  own, 
how  rich,  how  glorious,  how  inexplicable  they  seemed ! 
Was  it  a  wonder  that  the  man  could  not  forget  them, 
could  not  evade  their  questionings,  could  not  restrain  the 
tears  that  dropped  upon  the  paper  at  which,  in  the  even- 
ing of  life,  he  toiled,  a  tired,  disappointed  man,  for 
bread  ? 

XXVII. 

ONCE  at  the  Elms,  and  once  again  in  their  uncomfort- 
able city  lodgings,  Violet  Silsey  read  the  letter  which 
Lucia  Tree  wrote  to  her  after  the  event  of  the  last  chap- 
ter. Tke  letter  reached  the  Elms  the  very  day  that  Sil- 
sey and  his  wife  were  to  return  to  St.  John's. 

When,  in  the  dismal  back  room  with  the  look-out  on 


150  GETTING    ALONG. 

dead  walls,  Violet  read  the  letter  once  more  ;  it  brought 
back  the  fresh  country,  and  all  its  rare  delights,  and 
something  beside,  that  seemed  like  an  inspiration  to  the 
heart  of  Violet. 

Lucia  told  her  in  that  letter  of  all  that  had  befallen 
her  father's  family,  and  how  she  had  gone  to  work  in 
earnest,  and  the^bjessed  thing  it  was  to  feel  of  some  use 
in  the  world.;  The  first  time  that  she  read  it,  a  wish, 
that  seemed  the  very  wildest  of  all  wishes,  crossed  Violet's 
mind ;  but  now,  as,  with  grave  face,  in  the  silent  and 
darkened  room,  she  pores  over  it  again,  it  has  grown  into 
an  eager  hope,  and  her  heart  says,  though  it  trembles, 
"  Why  not  ?" 

Silsey  has  gone  into  the  street —  the  baby  sleeps. 
With  a  flushed  face,  for  her  resolution  seems  so  strange, 
BO  over-bold,  Violet  writes  a  word  to  Lucia — tells  her 
she  is  home  again — asks  if  she  will  come  to  her,  for  she 
has  some  urgent  business  to  talk  about  with  Lucia. 

And  she  folds  the  note — but  scarcely  has  she  done  so, 
when  a  low  familiar  rap  on  the  door  startles  her,  and  be- 
fore she  rises,  the  door  opens,  and  a  voice  says  quickly, 
"  Violet,  Violet !  are  you  there !"  and  Lucia  Tree  stands 
before  her. 

So  much  at  heart  Violet  has  the  subject  of  the  note — 
that  the  salutations  are  hardly  exchanged  between  them 
when  she  gives  it  into  Lucia's  hands. 

u  Answer  that  Lucia,  at  your  earliest  convenience," 
blushing,  she  says : 

<:  I  knew  all  the  while  you  wanted  me,"  and  the  strong 
sweet  voice  conveys  strength  to  the  heart  of  the  hearer. 
"  I  told  Will  you  did.  Oh,  Violet,  you  should  see  little 
Rose  !  But  now  tell  me  the  business,  and  then  we  will 
talk  about  everything." 

And  Violet  tells  Lucia  all;  keeps  nothing  back. 
Lucia's  industry  makes  her  ashamed.  She,  too,  would  find 


COMING    TO    THE    POINT.  151 

something  to  do  ...  why  should  she  not  ?  She  would 
help  Silsey  in  his  support  of  the  little  household,  so  that 
he  might  not  be  embarrassed  in  making  his  experiments. 
Experiments  cost  so  much  money ;  and  so  that  he  might 
have  more  time  for  study,  and  no  need  to  think  of  her 
and  Viola.  If  it  might  be,  she  would  gladly  take  upon 
herself  the  whole  burden  of  the  support.  It  is  not 
heavy — she  is  sure  it  would  not  be,  if  she  could  only 
learn  how  to  bear  it ;  then  Silsey  could  push  on  in  his 
career,  and  work  out  the  problems  which  he  studies — oh, 
if  she  might  only  do  this — and  it  perhaps  .  .  .  some- 
time might  happen  that  she  and  Silsey  together  would 
buy  a  little  place  in  the  country  like  the  Elms ;  with  tear- 
ful eyes  Violet  looks  straight  at  Lucia — what  has  Lucia 
to  advise  ? 

"  Mrs.  Violet  Silsey,"  she  says,  "  listen  to  me,  and 
stop  talking.  Are  you  so  fearfully  poor  !  Is  there  any 
danger  of  your  starving,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  No— not  that,  but — " 

"  That  is  all !  Don't  go  on  talking  in  that  way — and 
never  think  of  it  again  as  long  as  you  live.  You  want 
to  be  a  strong-minded  woman,  Violet,  but  you  will  fail ; 
do  not  try  it.  Why,  you  will  have  all  that  fresh  color 
worn  off  your  cheeks  in  less  than  a  month  if  you  begin 
to  think  in  that  way.  Where  is  your  common  sense  ?" 

"  There  was  sense  in  your  doing  it,  Lucia,"  expostu- 
lated Violet,  quite  taken  aback. 

"  Yes  indeed,  for  I  have  n't  a  husband  to  take  care  of 
me  who  endowed  me  with  all  his  wordly  goods.  Now,  if 
Mr.  Silsey  were  sick,  or  anything  of  that  sort — " 

"  But,  Lucia,  he  does  look  sick  and  old — as  if  he  were — 
wearing  out,"  faltered  Violet. 

"  Nonsense  !  that  is  sheer  slander.  Mr.  Silsey  never 
looked  so  well  in  his  life.  I  met  him  in  the  street  as  I 
came  down." 


152  <;I:TTIXG  ALONG. 

"  Do  you  really  think  so,  Lucia  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  do.  Now,  Violet,  think  sensibly.  If 
you  go  to  learn  a  trade,  you  know  you  have  declared, 
times  without  number,  that  you  are  no  genius,  and  of 
course  you  ought  to  know  about  it,  if  you  try  to  learn 
a  trade,  dress-making,  or  anything  like  that,  and  go  out 
to  sew,  or  sew  in  a  shop,  or  fill  the  house  up  with  work, 
who  's  going  to  take  care  of  the  baby  !  Oh,  behave  your- 
self, and  let  your  home  alone  !  a  blessed  little  place  it 
is — why,  do  you  not  know  it  ?" 

"  I  never  thought  of  being  a  dress  maker.  I  can't  sew 
without  getting  so  tired  !  but  I  thought  I  might  do  some- 
thing, though  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what — as  you  say, 
I  have  n't  any  genius." 

"  I  never  said  such  a  thing  in  my  life." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  know  it  all  the  same !  But  do  you  really 
think,  Lucia,  that  I  had  better  not  do  anything  ?  you 
mean  what  you  said  ?" 

:i  What  is  the  child  talking  about?  Did  you  ever 
find  me  saying  anything  I  thought  untrue,  Violet 
Silsey?  But  .  .  .  you  used  to  write  beautiful  poetry, 
Violet  ..." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Violet;  so  hastily  she  said  it,  and  so 
deeply  she  blushed,  that  no  other  proof  was  needed  of 
what  had  been  in  her  mind  all  these  moments. 

"  Then  you  deceived  me — you  did  not  write  the  verses 
I  used  to  think  were  yours." 

"  Oh  yes,  Lucia.  I  did." 

"  You  did !  thank  you  for  relieving  me  of  that  horrible 
suspicion.  Do  you  write  any  now?" 

"  No — not  very  often.  Who  is  that  Mr.  Vane  you 
wrote  about,  Lucia  ?" 

"  No  matter  about  him  just  now,  if  you  please,  Violet — 
keep  to  the  point.  Bring  me  your  portfolio — if  you  have 
kept  one  in  your  terrible  destitution.  Be  quick  and 


STELLA    AT    HOME.  153 

show  me  your  poems,  Violet,  such  as  you  have  left. 
Poets  are  born  to  be  poor,  I  believe.  I  know  one  who 
writes  poetry  in  colors  on  canvas,  and  \Yill  says  lie  was 
born  to  be  poor  as  a  church  rat,  and  he  seems  to  have 
a  reverence  for  the  appointed  fate  These  are  the 
poems  ?  I  suppose  I  have  placed  myself  in  a  charm- 
ing predicament ;  but  let  me  warn  you  against  one 
thing,  Violet ;  do  not  buy  your  place  in  the  country  on 
the  strength  of  handing  over  these  scraps  of  paper  to 
me,  do  you  hear  ?  And  now  tell  me  of  everything  that 
you  saw,  and  did,  and  felt,  in  the  country — and  I  shall 
think  I  have  been  there  myself,  instead  of  being  baked 
in  a  brick  oven  here  in  town.  Sing  me  a  song,  my  poet, 
about  yourself  and  Viola  in  the  woods  with  the  birds." 

That  the  song  was  sung  let  no  one  doubt,  because  I  do 
not  here  record  it. 


XXVIII. 

WE  have  long  lost  sight  of  the  convent  and  the  royal 
spirit  within  its  walls,  the  godly  Sister  Theresa. 

She  has  pursued,  since  we  last  saw  her,  the  "  even  tenor 
of  her  way  ;;j  but  not  entirely  at  peace.  No  longer  sought 
by  her  former  pupil,  who  has  found,  she  dreams,  her  sphere, 
and  it  excludes  all  human  teachers — she  has  wondered  at 
it  and  been  troubled  thereat. 

Miss  Mar  and  Father  Francis  have  held  another  con- 
versation, having  Stella  for  the  theme,  and  the  Father, 
recollecting  the  nun's  influence  over  her  when  she  was  a 
pupil  in  the  convent,  gives  to  the  nun  some  ghostly  coun- 
sel which  she,  for  her  part,  gladly  heeds,  and  in  accord- 
ance with  the  suggestion,  we  find  Theresa  seeking  Stella 
in  her  home. 

To  the  door  of  the  chamber  where  the  student  seems 
7* 


154  GETTING   ALONG. 

bent  on  exhausting  her  life  in  pursuit  of  knowledge,  Miss 
Mar  conducts  this  saintly  and  beloved  visitor,  and  open- 
ing the  door  in  response  to  the  knocking,  Stella  beholds 
the  nun. 

"  My  child  !"  is  the  exclamation  that  escapes  her  lips. 
Word  so  gentle,  spoken  so  tenderly,  Stella's  heart  opens 
wide  to  receive  it.  "  My  child  !''  who  else  has  ever  called 
her  so  ?  from  whom  beside  could  she  endure  to  hear  that 
word  ?  Wide  opens  Stella  Gammon's  heart  to  receive 
her.  Too  glad  for  smiles,  joy  trembles  like  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Oh,  mother,  you  have  been  so  long  away !" 

"  Nay — still  in  the  convent,  my  daughter.  Only  there. 
Is  it  not  you  who  have  forgotten  me  ?  And  I  must  come 
seeking  Stella  for  very  fear's  sake.  I  feared — yes,  I  did 
fear  the  world  had  won  her.  But  in  truth,  this  looks  not 
like  it,"  said  the  nun,  glancing  about  her  from  the  com- 
fortable study-chair  to  which  Stella  led  her,  and  from 
the  books  that  crowded  the  place,  and  the  papers  on  the 
table,  to  the  face  bright  with  another  spirit  from  any  she 
had  ever  seen  there,  now  turned  towards  her. 

"  The  world !"  repeated  Stella,  slowly ;  "  did  you  in- 
deed believe  it  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?     I  feared." 

"  But  now  you  do  not  fear  ?" 

"  Not  now,"  said  the  nun,  in  a  voice  less  placid,  less 
subdued,  but  not  less  loving  than  that  which  spoke  the 
preceding  words. 

"  Do  you  fear  anything  ?"  asked  Stella,  for  the  voice 
seemed  to  call  forth  the  question. 

"  I  would  not  have  you  perish  for  a  false  ambition's 


11 1  shall  not,  mother.     Ambition  !  I  have  none." 
"  But  what  has  wrought  this  change  ?     I  though  not 
this  of  you  .  .  .  May  I — "  she  took  from  the  table  a  vol- 


A  MAN'S  VOICE.  155 

ume,  but  her  eyes  did  not  turn  to  scan  its  contents,  nor 
did  they  glauce  at  its  title  until  Stella's  consent  came. 

"  There  is  nothing  that  I  would  hide  from  your  dear 
eyes  ...  I  learned  the  lesson  that  serves  me  so  well 
down  by  the  sea,  mother.  You  need  not  caution  me  now, 
nor  fear  for  me.  I  shall  never  go  into  a  convent." 

"  The  sea  taught  it  you  ?  ^Nature  is  a  blessed,  holy- 
hearted  friend.^  You  have  then  been  down  to  the  sea, 
child  ?" 

"  And  heard  the  waves  roar  as  when  I  was  indeed  a 
child,  and  seen  them  battle,  and  break,  and  fly  in  confu- 
sion ;  and  watched  the  clouds,  and  walked  on  the  sand ; 
and  heard  a  man's  voice  speaking  wise  things  to  me — it 
would  have  rejoiced  you  to  hear  them.  He  gave  me 
knowledge  such  as  neither  the  Church  nor  the  world  ever 
gave." 

"  A  man's  voice,  Stella  ?  He  gave  you  to  freedom, 
that  man  ?" 

"  Yes — that  freedom,  the  way  for  which  you  prepared. 
See,  if  you  will  behold  him  !  I  failed  in  making  a  good 
drawing,  still  'tis  not  unlike  him.  This  is  he.  I  want 
you  to  look  at  it.  Is  it  not  the  face  of  a  wise  man  ?  no 
overgrown  boy — or  over-fed  collegiate  ;  see." 

In  her  hands  took  the  nun  that  portrait.  "  And  this 
is  lie  ?"  she  said.  (t  The  man  that  taught  you." 

She  put  back  her  veil  still  further  from  her  face  as  she 
spoke,  that  she  might  the  better  look  at  the  rude  sketch. 

"  An  old  man — how  old  -he  looks,1'  she  said. 

<(  Oh  no,  not  old ;  but  worn,  tired,  gray  with  much 
thinking.  I  have  a  little  friend  who  is  going  to  make  a 
painting  of  it — she  has  promised  me.  I  shall  describe 
him  to  her ;  when  it  is  done  you  shall  see  it,  if  it  satis- 
fies me." 

"  And  wherefore  have  it  done  ?  does  not  this  sketch 
satisfy  you  ?" 


156  GETTING    ALONG. 

"  Oh,  this  ?  it  is  merely  an  outline — I  want  a  portrait 
to  hang  on  my  wall." 

''•  And  he  was  kind  to  you  ?  He  gave  you  freedom,  you 
say  ?  That  is  a  great  gift  .  .  .  Was  that  his  posture, 
that  bent,  thoughtful  attitude  ?  I  judge  so — it  is  so  pe- 
culiar, as  the  whole  expression  is.  What  was  he  doing 
there  by  the  sea,  where  you  found  him  ?" 

"  He  was  a  student,  and  living  a  little  while  in  an  old 
mill.  He  had  his  books  with  him,  and  wrote  a  great  deal, 
I  believe." 

"  But  it  seems  strange,  does  it  not,  dear  Stella,  that  he 
should  have  thought  of  advising  you  as  I  conclude  he 
did ;  you,  so  young  and  full  of  spirits,  to  shut  yourself 
up  in  the  way  that  he  was  doing.  Did  he  seem  so  very 
happy  in  his  isolation  ?  Was  that  the  reason  that  he 
urged  you  on  the  same  course  ?" 

Stella  did  not  at  once  reply.  But  her  confidence  in 
the  nun  triumphed  over  her  momentary  hesitation.  "  I 
asked  him  to  advise  me,  and  he  did,"  she  said. 

"  As  a  brother  might  do." 

"  In  even  a  better  way.  As  if  he  had  been  my  father. 
He  wished  me  to  be  free  .  .  .  And  I  am." 

"  Glad  am  I  to  hear  that,  dear  child.  To  hear  it  from 
your  lips !" 

"  You  do  not  blame  me,  then.  You  have  no  more  to 
say  about  the  Church  ?" 

"  Nothing,  dear  child." 

"  Mr.  Layard  will  go  into  the  Church,  you  know  ?" 

"  Yes — and  that  also  is  good." 

"  You  are  not  well — you  are  pale,  dear  mother  !  Oh, 
I  wish  that  you — were — free  !" 

"  My  daughter,  there  is  no  living  thing  more  free  than 
I.  Am  I  pale  ?  I  am  not  ill." 

"  But  the  school  tires  you.  I  know  it  must.  Oh,  if 
we — you  and  I — could  go  away  into  some  solitude  and 


WHAT    SHALL    THE   END    BE?  157 

live  together,  I  believe  I  should  grow  better — and  so 
would  you.  This  convent  is  not  your  place — and  this 
city  is  not  mine." 

"  Are  you  not  well  ?"  quickly  asked  the  nun. 

"  Oh,  yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  Look  around  you — does 
not  this  room  assure  you  of  it  ?" 

"  Truly — yes.  Like  activity,  which  nothing  but  per- 
fect health  would  allow  .  .  .  But  what,  Stella,  what  is 
to  be  the  end  of  all  this  ?" 

"  I  shall  expect  to  be  very  wise  some  time — I  shall 
have  knowledge,"  said  Stella,  lightly,  yet  not  with  perfect 
freedom.  There  was  something  constrained,  something 
wanting  in  that  smile. 

"  Is  knowledge  everything?"  the  nun  asked  seriously. 

"  Yes — surely,"  was  the  instant  and  firm  response. 

"  What,  then,  is  to  become  of  those  who  are  dead,  if 
not  to  know  is  to  be  dead  ?  Come  with  me,  child ;  I  will 
lead  you  out  to  see  what  is,  and  what  is  done  under 
heaven — to  a  confessional  wjiere  God  alone  will  hear  what 
your  heart  shall  sa}\" 

Stella  started,  hearing  that  great  name.  She  repeated 
it  after  the  nun,  as  if  something  forgotten  were  recalled. 
She  half  stood  up,  then  resolutely  sat  again. 

The  nun  comprehended  the  indecision  of  the  movement 
— and  its  decision  also. 

"Did  he  teach  you  this?"  she  said,  with  sad  earnest- 
ness. 

"  He  taught  me  to  seek  knowledge." 

"  Where,  and  how  ?  of  God  through  all  sights,  and 
thoughts,  and  feelings  ?  Is  there  knowledge  more  excel- 
lent than  this  ? — any  beside  this  worth  the  name?" 

"  He  taught  me  to  ascertain  that  which  can  be' 
known." 

The  nun  reflected  a  moment — it  was  apparent  that 
what  Stella  had  said  deeply  troxibled  her. 


158  GETTING    ALONG. 

"  He  is  a  wise  man,"  she  said.  "  I  will  help  you  to 
obey  his  bidding,  and  him  in  his  teaching.  Get  your 
bonnet,  and  walk  with  me  once  more.  In  the  fresh  air 
we  shall  think  morte  freely.  Come,  my  child — come, 
Stella. 

Her  soft  hands,  as  she  spoke,  smoothed  the  shining  hair 
of  the  half-averted  head  that  but  now  had  fondly  leaned 
upon  her  bosom. 

"  You  did  not  tell  me  your  new  teacher's  name,"  she 
said.  "  I  ought  to  know,  since  he  has  taken  my  pupil 
away  from  me." 

"  Away  from  you !"  the  warm,  impulsive  heart  was 
stirred  again,  and  to  its  depths.  She  threw  her  arms 
around  the  nun's  neck  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  saw  his  name  written  in  one  of  Susan's  books 
—Mark  Leighton — that  was  the  name  I  called  him ; 
Leighton." 

"  Mark  Leighton,"  slowly  the  nun  repeated.  "  'Tis  a 
good  name,  a  noble  name.  It  belongs  to  a  learned  pro- 
fessor, did  you  not  know  it  ?  He  deserves  a  place  at 
the  head  of  the  first  college  in  the  land — but  he  will 
never  have  it." 

A  thought  flashed  bright  and  warm  through  Stella 
Gammon's  mind.  Under  pretence  of  making  ready  for 
the  walk,  she  turned  quickly  away  from  tbe  inquiring 
gaze  of  Sister  Theresa. 

Was  not  the  college  of  St.  John's  about  to  lose  its 
president?  .  .  . 

XXIX. 

DOWN  the  street,  beyond  the  pale  of  civilization,  the 
veiled  women  went  together.  Quite  beyond  the  splendid 
shops,  and  the  market  places  wherefsouls  and  principles 
are  the  very  cheapest  things  on  sale,)  through  the  mag- 


THE   HEART   OF   ST.    JOHN'S.  159 

nificent  portals  that  led  down  to  the  depths  of  stagnant 
degradation. 

It  was  a  shadowy,  sweet  day;  bright  at  rare  intervals 
with  sunshine.  The  sky  was  beautiful  with  clouds  that 
floated  like  great  mountainous  islands,  half  hid  in  snows, 
through  vast  blue  seas  of  space. 

The  streets  were  full  of  people.  Lounging  men,  with 
nerves  that  shook  as  if  with  palsy — and  idle  laborers; 
gaudy  ladies — in  full  dre.ss — and  ragged  beggars ;  men 
and  women,  the  offscouring  of  heathendom  (there  in  the 
heart  of  St.  John's!)  scavengers  and  cartmen — drays 
and  chariots — servants  in  livery,  and  foul  fiends  in  dis- 
guise— solemn-visaged,  magnificent  in  bearing,  furbelowed 
with  finery,  bestial  in  the  truth  that  shone  out  lurid  and 
fearful  through  inefficient  imitations  of  decency  and  virtue. 

Without  a  shudder  these  veiled  women,  the  nun  and 
Stella,  went.  Their  eyes  had  become  accustomed  to 
euch  scenes  as  these ;  and  more  startiugly,  though  not 
more  faithfully,  must  they  present  themselves,  if  they 
would  be  appreciated.  Something  of  this  truth,  also,  the 
elder  woman  understood,  or  she  would  not  have  led  her 
companion  in  that  path  that  day. 

Oh  the  foul,  foul  air,  floating  through  those  narrow, 
unsafe  streets !  The  ruin  of  those  decaying  buildings, 
tottering  from  their  foundations — apparently  about  to 
bury  the  more  awful  human  ruins  that  within  them 
sought  a  shelter,  in  the  dark  finality  of  their  fate ! 
Wrath  and  strife,  hunger,  nakedness,  disease,  profanity — 
the  brood  of  Hell  was  there.  Little  children  that  were 
born,  the  mark  was  visible  upon  them,  spite  of  golden 
hair,  red  cheeks,  and  childhood's  eyes,  imps  of  Satan,  to 
do  his  evil  work. 

Young  womanhood  with  infancy  upon  her  breast,  borne 
in  maternal  arms,  as  you  were  borne  in  the  enfolding 
love  of  your  own  mother,  reader.  But  what  young 


160  GETTING    ALONG. 

womanhood,  what  infancy  was  this !  Oh  desecrated 
temples  which  to  the  Holy  Ghost  might  have  been  con- 
secrated, for  so,  surely  so,  the  Builder  meant — oh  in- 
fancy !  "  Heir  of  the  Universe,"  what  has  brought  you 
here  to  breathe  this  air,  to  live  this  death,  to  tread 
through  this  "  perpetual  desolation'' ! 

Men  in  the  prime  of  life,  bloated,  decrepit — the  fires 
of  passion  raging  in  their  breasts — their  scathing  tokens 
on  every  limb  and  lineament — old  men  tottering  about, 
reeking  with  oaths,  hoary  with  iniquity,  what,  who  are 
these  ?  Pilgrims  of  the  Holy  Place,  the  New  Jerusa- 
lem ? — sons  and  daughters  of  the  Lord  Almighty  ? 

You  start  back  in  a  blushing  consternation,  you  that 
"  live  delicately,"  and  wear  the  raiment  of  princes — for 
whither  have  I  led  you  ?  only  to  the  city's  heart,  only  to 
this  avenue  through  which  its  life-blood  passes.  The 
lisping  courtier  by  your  side,  who  this  day  unrebuked 
smiles  his  oaths  in  your  hearing,  and  sips  daintily  the 
bright  cup  of  corruptions  in  which  he  has  dissolved  the 
Pearl  of  Price,  you  that  go  hand  in  hand  with  him  along 
the  "  slippery  places"  of  the  great  proud  city,  shining  in 
the  splendor  of  your  apparelling,  no  soul  to  save  in  your 
keeping,  no  throbbing,  aching,  pitying,  holy  heart,  in 
your  hollow  breast,  no  true  thought  in  your  brain,  will 
you,  lady,  and  will  he  go  with  these  women  in  the  paths 
they  walk  to-day  ? 

Through  these  streets  and  lanes,  the  nun  led  Stella 
Gammon. 

At  length  they  came  to  a  square  bit  of  ground  that 
once  had  been  enclosed,  but  the  fence  had  fallen  into 
ruin,  and  no  token  was  left  of  the  grass  that  in  other 
years  had  flourished  there.  Around  this  square  were 
blocks  of  houses  built  of  brick ;  these,  also,  were  in  a 
dilapidated  condition — they  spoke  fearful  things  concern 
ing  the  life  that  swarmed  within  them. 


THE    KEEPING    OF   A    HOLY    DAY.  161 

In  the  square,  evidently  to  the  nun's  surprise  as  well  as 
Stella's,  a  large  company  of  people  had  gathered  together ; 
they  were  listening  to  a  speaker  who  stood  slightly  ele- 
vated above  the  crowd ;  he  was  preaching  to  them.  Up  to 
the  verge  of  this  human  sea,  the  two  women  approached, 
and  with  the  rest  they  stood  to  listen ;  and  Stella  rec- 
ognized the  speaker's  face — it  was  the  face  of  Mr. 
Falcon. 

As  they  drew  near  he  was  closing  the  book  from  which 
Jie  had  been  reading ;  looking  about  him  with  a  friendly, 
yet  commanding  glance,  he  began  to  speak,  in  a  voice 
that  penetrated  through  every  portion  of  the  assembly. 

"  Men  and  women,  brothers  and  sisters,  little  children, 
all  of  you,  good  friends,  I  called  this  meeting  here  at 
this  time,  that  you  and  I  might  celebrate,  down  here,  a 
day  which  many  Christians  keep  in  remembrance  of  the 
death  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  Righteous.  That  we  might 
think  upon  him,  and  get  some  good  by  the  thinking  .  .  . 
We  have  our  Fourth  of  July — and  a  great  day  we  make 
of  it,  with  our  speeches,  and  cannon,  and  bonfires,  and 
whiskey.  We  keep  that  day  in  remembrance  of  our  na- 
tional struggle  for  liberty ;  in  honor  of  the  men  who 
fought  for  us.  This  day  we  ought  to  keep  with  a  few 
more  smiles,  and  a  few  more  tears,  and  a  great  many 
more  thoughts  than  we  give  to  other  days,  in  memory  of 
the  man  who  died  for  us.  For  us,  I  say.  Do  you  think 
those  men  who  fought  for  American  independence  fought 
only  for  the  few  people  who  were  in  the  country  at  that 
time  ?  I  tell  you  they  fought  for  us  ;  for  you  Irish,  and 
German,  and  English  people,  and  we  Americans,  for 
.  everybody  who  should  live  in  this  great  wide  country  in 
all  future  time.  They  fought  for  all  nations,  and  all 
time — to  make  the  country  great  and  free,  so  that  whoso- 
ever should  come  into  it  after  they  were  dead  and  gone, 
should  be  also  free,  and  have  as  good  a  chance  of  be- 


162  GETTING   ALONG. 

coming  great,  I  mean  wise  and  happy  by  that,  as  they 
had  after  the  battles  were  all  fought,  and  the  land  was 
full  of  peace  and  liberty.  Just  so  we  speak  of  the  death 
of  Jesus  Christ :  it  was  for  us.  as  well  as  for  those  Jews 
and  Gentiles  who  were  His  neighbors  and  friends  and  ene- 
mies in  Judea,  and  round  about  there.  So,  though  we 
have  no  cannon-firing,  rum-drinking,  speech-making,  and 
general  glorification  to-day,  let  us  have  some  praying — 
some  quiet  joy  and  thankfulness— and  a  great  deal  more 
loving  than  we  have  had  in  the  days  along  back.  But 
do  any  of  you-  ask,  "  why  ?"  again.  I  have  read  to  you 
from  the  Scriptures  that  Jesus  Christ  died  that  we  might 
live.  Now  that  means  something.  And  you  do  not  get 
all  the  meaning  at  first  hearing  the  words.  You  know 
not  what  it  means  unless  you  think  about  it.  So  let  us 
think  about  it. 

"  What  amazing  good  thing  was  in  this  man's  dying 
for  us,  that  the  Scriptures  should  be  full  of  it  ?  What 
need  was  there  of  His  dying  ?  Men  hated  Him — do  you 
know  what  that  means,  for-wicked  men  to  hate  a  good  man? 

"  They  hated  Him  so  bitterly,  that  unless  He  went  away, 
beyond  their  reach,  they  would  be  sure  to  kill  Him. 
They  knew  how  to  murder  in  those  days  as  well  as  now. 
They  were  used  to  such  things.  Now,  if  He  had  desired 
to  escape  from  those  people  He  could  have  done  so.  But 
He  stayed,  and  He  was  crucified.  He  let  those  hard- 
hearted men  who  hated  Him,  and  those  insulting  women 
and  children,  they  all  had  a  hand  in  it,  He  let  them  kill 
him.  Why  ?  He  had  a  lesson  to  teach  them,  which  they 
would  never  learn  unless  He  put  it  into  such  a  shape  as 
they  could  not  help  seeing  and  learning.  He  loved 
them — and  by  them,  I  mean  us,  and  everybody  that 
lives,  or  ever  did  live,  so  well,  so  greatly,  so  much  be- 
yond any  love  you  feel  for  the  dearest  of  your  little  chil- 
dren, you  mothers  and  fathers  here,  that  He  was  willing 


FALCON'S  SERMON.  163 

to  die.  But  how  was  His  death  going  to  help  them  ?  He 
died  to  save  them.  Prom  what  could  His  death  save  them  ? 
He  died  that  we  might  live,  the  good  book  says.  Now, 
what  is  it  to  live  ?  Listen,  this  is  eternal  life,  to  know  the 
only  living  and  true  God,  and  Jesus  Christ,  whom  He 
has  sent  .  .  .  Therefore  Christ  died  that  we  might 
know  him.  Are  you  living  all  of  you  ?  then  you  know 
him.  Now  think  of  this  a  moment.  Perhaps  some  of 
you  are  wondering  how  it  can  all  be. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  ?  then  you 
serve  Him  !  Do  you  serve  Him  ?  then  of  course  you  love 
Him !  Do  you  love  Him  whom  you  have  not  seen  ? 
then  you  love  all  around  you  whom  you  have  seen  !  Oh, 
think  of  this  !  think  of  it  every  one  of  you.  Do  you  love 
all  around  you?  then  you  are  kind,  you  are  patient,  you 
help  each  other  in  all  good  works — you  are  alive — but  if 
you  do  none  of  these  things  you  are  dead  !  dead  !  And 
who,  who  can  bring  the  dead  back  to  life !  Can  any 
of  you  do  it  ?  Oh,  my  friends,  hear  again  the  word  of 
Jesus  Christ.  I  am  the  Way,  and  the  Truth,  and  the 
Life !  .  .  .  He  who  is  Life  can  make  you  alive,  and  there 
is  none  other  that  can  do  it.  He  said  so  himself,  and 
did  any  one,  did  ever  one  of  you  find  out  that  He  said 
anything  but  the  truth  ?  Now,  my  dear  brothers  and 
sisters,  just  let  me  ask  you,  do  you  think  that  you  are  alive  ? 
God  knows  I  hope  that  some  among  you  are.  And  I 
believe  that  some  of  you  are.  But  I  know  that  some 
others  of  you  are  dead.  I  have  seen  angry  looks  in  your 
faces — you  speak  bitter  words  to  each  other ;  is  it  not  so  ? 
is  there  no  drinking,  no  contending,  no  fighting,  no  swear- 
ing, no  lying,  no  stealing  going  on  down  here  ?  Do  you 
all  love  each  other  ?  are  you  all  trying  to  help  each  other 
by  kind  words,  and  friendly  acts  ?  You  men,  brothers ! 
are  you  working  in  order  to  secure  comfortable  homes 
for  your  wives  and  little  children,  who  are  going  to  be 


164  GETTING    ALONG. 

men  and  women  some  day  ?  Are  you  laying  up  money 
from  your  earnings  to  educate  the  children  ?  You 
women — sisters,  are  you  making  your  homes  comfortable 
for  your  husbands  and  those  little  ones  ?  Do  you  teach 
your  children  to  fear  God,  and  to  do  good  ?  Boys  and 
girls,  what  are  you  all  doing?  What  is  to  become  of 
you  ?  That  is  what  I  want  you  all  to  think  of  on  this 
day.  What  are  you  all  doing  ?  where  are  you  all  going  ? 

"  Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy 
heart,  and  thy  neighbor  as  thyself.  Do  you  hear  that  ? 
If  you  obeyed  it.  my  friends,  would  you  be  in  such  a 
plight  as  you  are  in  now  1  dressed  in  rags — living  by 
beggary,  or  theft,  or  some  worse  thing  ?  Think  of  it, 
this  book  says  you.  are  God's  temple,  you  are  God's 
building!  Now  tell  me,  is  there  a  man,  woman,  or  child 
here,  who  would  go  into  God's  temple  to  pollute  it  ? 
And  are  you  willing  that  any  evil  thing  should  come  into 
your  heart,  which  God  is  willing  to  own  for  his  temple  ? 
Wouldn't  you  wonder  at  the  thief  who  could  rob  the 
house  of  God,  or  the  man  who  could  commit  murder 
there  ?  And  will  you  let  in  evil  thoughts  to  your  hearts 
to  rob  them  of  all  that  is  good  and  precious  in  them — 
and  to  commit  murder  there  ?  Yes,  I  say  it  again,  to 
commit  murder  there.  Have  you,  mothers  ever  had  a 
sweet  thought  in  your  heart,  a  precious  and  beautiful 
hope,  and  did  you  give  way  to  any  temptation  to  sin,  so 
that  the  hope  all  at  once  disappeared,  and  you  could 
think  the  sweet  thought  no  more  ?  Then  you  have  been 
guilty  of  murder.  Yes  !  I  declare  it,  though  no  blood  is 
on  your  hands,  and  no  man  seeks  to  imprison  you.  You 
have  committed  murder. 

"  What  man  who  loves  his  neighbor  as  he  loves  him- 
self will  not  be  kind  and  tender-hearted,  patient  and  for- 
giving? Not  quick  to  take  offence.  Christ,  your  mas- 
ter, bids  you  be  slow  to  wrath.  He  went  about  doing 


THE    SERMON.  105 

good.  He  healed  the  sick  and  fed  the  hungry  ;  when 
there  was  a  multitude  together,  a  far  greater  multitude 
than  is  here  to-day,  and  they  had  nothing  to  eat,  He  fed 
them.  A  little  basket,  which  any  of  you  children  could 
carry  on  your  arm,  you  would  not  believe  that  it  could 
hold  enough  for  five  thousand  people ;  but  He  could  have 
fed  all  the  world  from  it,  just  as  easy  as  that  crowd 
around  him.  Are  any  of  you  hungry  and  sick  ?  will  you 
be  fed  ?  will  you  be  well  again  ?  and  cannot  He  who  did 
all  these  great  things  do  them  again  ?  Try  Him,  and 
see.  He  rose  from  the  grave,  to  show  us  that  He  was 
alive  for  evermore.  We  cannot  see  Him,  it  is-true,  but 
we  can  see  His  work ;  lead  holy  lives,  and  you  will  see 
in  each  other  what  a  great  and  beautiful  work  it  is.  Let 
the  man  or  woman  speak  out  who  thinks  that  we  cannot 
love  Christ  Jesus ;  who  of  you  believes  that  He  does  nob 
love  us  ?" 

He  paused,  and  looked  around  him — no  one  answered, 
but  every  eye  was  bent  upon  the  speaker ;  'twas  not  be- 
cause they  did  not  hear,  and  were  not  following  his 
words,  that  no  voice  responded.  And  Mr.  Falcon,  per- 
ceiving this,  went  on  : 

"  Oh,  God  came  down  from  heaven  just  for  this,  to  be 
our  guide,  to  help  to  deliver  ourselves  from  ourselves. 
If  any  one  of  you  are  grieved  on  account  of  any  evil  or 
unfortunate  thing  you  have  done,  you  may  be  sure  you 
can  do  better.  Sure  that  Christ  sees  you,  and  is  ready 
to  help  you  the  very  instant  you  ask  Him.  How  can  you 
bring  yourselves  to  Him  ?  You,  fathers  and  mothers, 
and  boys  and  girls,  do  you  ask  how  you  can  do  that  ? 
Why,  just  in  this  way.  Do  what  He  has  commanded — 
love  and  serve  Him.  And  how  are  you  to  do  that  ?  Love 
your  fellow-men  and  women,  as  I  said — be  honest.  There 
are  better  things  that  you  can  be  about,  my  sisters,  than 
hunting  for  fine  clothes  to  put  upon  your  bodies.  Where- 


160  GETTING   ALONG. 

fore  spend  your  thoughts  and  wishes  on  trash  and  rags  ? 
The  Scriptures,  which  give  the  right  name  to  everything, 
and  never  make  a  mistake  or  a  blunder,  as  we  often  do 
when  we  do  our  very  best,  they  call  these  bodies  of  ours 
frames.  Frames  ?  Well,  now,  hear  me.  I  have  noticed 
in  some  of  your  shops  a  good  many  of  these  things, 
frames,  hanging  up  about  the  walls,  and  sometimes  I 
have  stopped  to  look  at  the  pictures  inside  of  them.  And 
I  tell  you,  the  more  gilt  there  is  on  the  frames,  the  more 
ornament  and  trumpery,  the  worse,  when  the  picture  is 
not  worth  anything.  Fine  clothes  are  not  going  to  save 
you ;  they  will  do  you  uo  good.  If  your  picture,  and  by 
that  I  mean  your  heart,  is  a  bad  one,  then  it  is  none  the 
better  for  having  on  a  fine  frame.  I  tell  you,  look  to  the 
picture  !  Let  it  not  be  one — I  have  seen  too  many  such 
down  here,  and  in  other  places  beside — don't  let  it  be  one 
that  a  good  man's  eye,  or  a  pure,  modest  woman's  eye, 
would  blush  to  look  at,  and  be  afraid  to  look  at  ... 
Things  are  not  going  to  stand  still  in  this  world ;  they 
never  have,  and  they  never  will  till  all  is  finished.  Time 
keeps  going  on,  and  the  world  goes  on,  and  people  go  on. 
Somehow  or  other,  for  better  or  worse,  everything  is 
getting  along.  But  there  will  be  a  stop  put  to  us  all 
after  awhile;  these  hearts  beating  in  our  breasts  will 
run  down  and  stop,  and  nothing  can  set  them  agoing 
again.  You  cannot  do  it,  nor  I,  nor  any  man.  But 
God  can.  And  if  we  keep  false  time  here,  we  shall  keep 
false  time  forever.  These  pictures  will  be  finished  be- 
fore long.  These  souls  of  ours,  I  mean.  They  will  all 
be  finished ;  and  what  if  the  eye  that  cannot  be  deceived 
looks  at  them — at  them,  not  at  the  poor  frame  we  tried 
to  make  so  fine,  and  says,  '  This  picture,  this  soul,  is 
good  for  nothing  but  to  be  burned.' 

"  Oh,  no  !  let  it  not  be  that  He  shall  say  that  to  any 
one  of  us.     Put  on  Christ,  aud  do  not  iniud  so  much 


THE    SEKMOX.  167 

about  the  gay  dress  and  pretty  ribbon,  the  ear-rings  and 
finger-rings.  Put  on  Christ,  I  say — and  by  that  I  mean, 
be  like  Him;  be  meek,  be  pure,  be  holy,  for  Christ  was 
all  this — and  work,  for  He  worked — and  hope,  for  He 
hoped — and  remember  that  you  are  to  live  forever  if  you 
are  living  now  in  peace,  like  good  Christians. 

"  Root  up,  then — oh,  make  haste  about  it ! — root  up 
from  the  garden  of  your  hearts  all  weeds  of  vice ;  be 
clean,  be  honest.  Drink  no  more,  curse  no  more.  When 
you  speak  the  name  of  our  dear  Saviour,  let  it  be  in 
solemn  prayer  to  Him,  for  it  grieves  Him  when  you  take 
up  that  name  in  a  passion,  or  in  jest,  and  knock  it  about 
amongst  angry  looks  and  words,  or  in  your  sport,  like  a 
common  foot-ball  .  .  .  Let  us  pray  .  .  .  But — first,  let 
me  say  to  you,  fathers  and  mothers,  and  children,  wheu 
our  prayer  to  God  is  ended,  I  will  talk  with  those  of  you 
who  will  remain  about  getting  up  a  school  here  for  the 
boys  and  girls.  Why  should  we  not  have  our  school,  and 
learn  to  read  and  write?  but  we  will  talk  of  that.". 

Here  Mr.  Falcon  ceased  speaking  to  the  people,  and 
lifting  his  face  heavenward,  he  prayed. 

The  nun  took  Stella's  arm  in  silence,  and  drew  back  a 
few  paces ;  when  the  prayer  was  ended,  they  alone  went 
from  the  place. 

In  silence  they  returned  iuto  the  street,  where  hourly 
falls  the  seed  that  grows  up  into  fruit  as  poisonous  and 
loathsome  as  that  which,  decaying,  heap  upon  heap,  lies 
down  there  in  the  City's  Heart,  waiting  the  breaking  of 
the  judgment  cloud,  or  the  patient  working-hand  of  the 
God-fearing  Reformer. 

"  If  he  could  make  his  work  the  fashion,"  said  Stella, 
as,  for  a  moment,  she  stayed  the  nun's  step,  and  significant- 
ly pointed  to  the  new  lace-store  which  that  morning  was 
opened,  already  thronged  with  fair  purchasers  who  carried 
iu  their  purses  and  upou  their  persons,  tokens  of  the  mad- 


168  GETTING    ALONG. 

ness  of  their  folly  as  condemning  as  the  thirty  pieces  of 
the  apostolic  treasurer.  This  was  the  establishment  to 
which,  in  one  column  of  his  paper,  an  editor  had  that 
day  called,  with  all  the  graces  of  his  rhetoric,  (a  preacher 
be-pumng  a  millinery  warehouse  !)  the  attention  of  all 
women ;  while,  in  another  column,  he  made  to  God  and 
the  nation  amende  honorable,  for  treacherous  betrayals 
of  his  place,  by  commending  a  foreign  critic's  amazed  de- 
nunciation of  the  ruinous  extravagance  of  the  women  of 
America. 

And  they  flitted  in  and  out ;  and  the  world  went  rush- 
ing on  ;  for  the  churches  were  closed  again,  the  crucifixion 
celebrated.  And  the  ministers  preached,  and  the  editors 
preached,  and  here,  in  this  thoroughfare,  was  the  congre- 
gation ! 

And  among  them,  for  a  moment,  stood  Stella  Gammon, 
gazing  upon  the  crowd  of  faces,  recognizing,  here  and 
there,  the  countenances  of  those  she  knew,  and  thinking 
of  the  other  forms  and  faces  she  had  that  day  beheld. 
Shuddering,  she,  for  an  instant,  closed  her  eyes;  her 
brain  ached  with  the  heaviness  of  the  thought  that  press- 
ed along  it,  leaving  the  ineffacable  token  of  its  progress. 
And  drawing  nearer  to  the  nun,  she  urged  her  on  with" 
quickening  step,  till  they  came  to  the  door  of  the  con- 
vent, when  she  let  fall  the  arm  to  which  she  clung,  and 
went  her  way  alone  without  a  word.  She  had  no  desire 
to  enter  there  and  so  escape  all  that  she  had  seen  that 
day.  She  went  on  homeward,  not  thinking  of  the 
<;  finite"  and  "  conditioned"  so  much,  oh  reader,  as  of  the 
Infinite  and  absolute — for  unto  whom,  beside  this  Uncon- 
ditioned One,  could  she  go,  surrounded,  stiffled,  as  she 
was,  by  this  death  that  she  had  looked  upon  ? 


LEIGHTON'S  HOME,  169 


XXX. 

SUSAN  was  recovering  from  the  exposure  and  anguish 
of  her  night-watch,  and  never  was  the  convalescence  of  an 
invalid  more  eagerly  looked  for  than  hers  had  been. 
Every  member  of  the  house  had  looked  and  longed  for 
it,  and  one  among  them  had  done  more  than  look  and 
long. 

During  the  first  weeks  of  her  residence  at  the  Hall, 
while  she  was  yet  slowly  regaining  her  strength,  Clarence 
came  to  her  one  morning — it  was  not  his  first  visit,  by 
many,  to  her  room — he  brought  a  letter  to  her.  The  au- 
tumn sun  was  streaming  through  the  large  and  elegantly- 
draped  window;  the  curtains  were  half-drawn,  there 
was  a  pleasant  shadow  in  the  room,  and  deep  silence; 
while  without,  there  seemed  only  quiet  and  peace  in  the 
world  :  no  storms  raging,  none  gathering ;  but  when  she 
looked  on  the  inscription  of  the  letter,  a  torrent  of  tears 
burst  from  Susan's  eyes ;  in  her  soul  there  was  a  tempest. 

It  was  from  Mr.  Leighton,  and  as  follows  : 

"  Exceedingly  do  I  regret,  dear  Susan,  that  my  de- 
parture from  the  beach  occurred  so  early  in  the  season. 
For  one  reason  I  deeply  deplore  that  I  did  so.  I  would, 
I  should  have  been  with  you  in  the  days  that  are  gone. 
How  you  have  borne  your  sorrows  I  believe  I  know.  But 
at  such  a  time  I  would  have  chosen  to  stand  by  you. 
Sorely  will  you  feel  your  loss.  It  will  meet  you  often. 
Your  father  was  so  strong  a  man,  and  you  relied  on  him 
so  much.  His  integrity  was  not  surpassed — his  virtue 
was  impregnable.  A  man  more  truly  honest,  honorable, 
upright,  I  have  not  known.  Be  proud  that  such  a  man 
was  your  father.  His  affections — but  of  these  I  may  not 
speak.  They  were  yours 

VOL.  ir.  8 


170  OETTING    ALONG. 

"  But  I  know  how  well  he  loved  you.  I  bear  in  mind 
your  present  loneliness.  You  have  gone  to  live,  to  learn 
life  with  your  father's  friend,  but  that  fact  does  not  cover 
your  loss. 

"  Had  I  been  with  you  at  the  beach  I  should  have  had 
some  words  to  say  to  you,  which  in  effect  would  have  been, 
Come  and  live  with  me.  My  habitation  is  small,  but 
large  enough  for  two — it  shall  be  j'ours.  I  should  have 
said,  Come,  and  be  my  daughter.  And  what  I  must  have 
said  then,  I  repeat  now.  But  I  know  not  that  there  is 
a  need  for  saying  it.  I  cannot  offer  you  what  you  lind 
where  you  now  are.  But  my  home  is  at  all  times  open 
to  you.  You  are  free  at  any  time  to  share  whatever  of 
treasure  it  may  have. 

"  I  have  no  worldly  riches  with  which  to  endow  you — 
but  you  shall  never  want.  This  I  know  will  not  seem 
to  you  a  very  brilliant  prospect,  but  I  would  guide  you 
as  a  father  should,  and  care  for  you. 

"i^have  been  indulging  in  a  sweet  vision  to-day.  I 
see  you  in  this  quiet  .study,  the  table  between  us.  My 
little  maiden  is  like  genial  sun-heat  and  fresh  flowers  in 
the  room,  which,  without  her,  is  somewhat  dismal  and 
chill.  It  is  a  presence  that  enlarges  and  hallows  my 
toil.  Her  voice  breaks  on  the  silence,  and  even  when 
the  room  is  still,  it  seems  full  of  melody.  And  I  hear 
the  students  saying  among  themselves,  '  What  ails  tho 
professor,  he  has  grown  so  wise  ?'  and  another  -answers, 
'  He  is  happy — poor  old  fellow  !' 

"  But  I  would  in  nothing  deceive  you,  Susan.  I  would 
neither  enliven  nor  deaden  the  prospect.  I  should  make 
but  a  dull  painter.  I  live  in  lodgings — I  have  no  house 
— my  professorship  is  next  to  nothing ;  but  enough  for 
myself,  and  for  you  too,  for  long  ago  I  renounced  what 
people  call  the  luxuries  of  life.  I  can  only  invite  you  to 
a  poor  man's  table.  The  vessels  that  sail  around  the 


A    HOUSE    OF    WORSHIP.  171 

world  collecting  wonderful  and  valuable  treasure,  never 
land  their  cargo  at  my  door  .  .  .  Most  of  the  windows 
in  my  room  are  closed  to  make  room  for  my  shelves  of 
books — my  library,  in  short,  is  the  sum  of  my  riches ; 
and  these  books  you  may  share  with  me.  But  some- 
times, for  I  must  not  slander  my  fortune,  the  sun  shines 
in  upon  my  table  from  between  the  roofs  of  high  brick 
buildings — we  might  coax  violets  to  grow  here,  for  they 
love  the  shade  .  .  .  Six  of  .my  hours  every  day  are  spent 
in  the  college.  In  the  evening,  when  I  do  not  lecture,  I 
study. 

"  This  is  unlike  the  prospect  before  you,  where  you 
now  are.  You  understand  the  fact  so  well  that  I  need 
not  draw  the  lines  of  difference.  I  mean  you  well, 
Susan — my  best.  But,  if  better  things  await  you  else- 
where, receive  them.  I  love  you  too  well,  I  hope  for 
you  too  sincerely,  to  wish  to  bias  or  thwart  your  fortune. 
Write  to  me." 

And  then  followed  his  name  and  address. 

When  she  had  read  this  letter,  which  she  did  twice 
over  before  she  removed  her  eyes  from  the  paper,  forget- 
ful of  the  presence  of  Clarence,  Susan  still  sat  thinking 
over  its  contents,  and  saying  to  herself  that  she  would 
get  Mr.  Falcon  to  go  for  Stella  Gammon  that  she  might 
advise  with  her  about  the  letter  :  for  Susan  had  by  no 
means  come  to  a  conclusion  yet. 

Her  meditation  was  disturbed  by  the  rustling  of  a  paper. 
Clarence  was  advancing  towards  her.  In  his  hand  he 
held  an  oblong  box,  from  which,  when  he  had  removed  a 
number  of  tissue  wrappings,  he  drew  forth  a  rosary,  and 
advancing  towards  Susan  with  ill-concealed  delight,  he 
placed  it  round  her  neck ;  and  then,  retreating  a  step, 
he  bent  down  upon  the  floor  as  a  penitent  petitioning  be- 
fore a  shrine. 

Incapable  of  understanding,  or  of  guessing  the  mean- 


172  GETTING    ALCWG. 

ing  of  all  this,  Susan  recoiled  in  consternation  that  was 
plainly  manifest. 

"  Oh  no,  Clarence,  you  must  not,"  she  said  at  length, 
for  he  continued  kneeling  with  closed  eyes  and  uplifted 
hands,  and  a  confused  recollection  of  the  pictures  of 
savages  bowing  before  idols  in  the  book  of  travels  Tom 
gave  her  as  his  parting  gift,  occurred  to  her. 

"  You  kneel,"  said  he  ;  "I  saw  you." 

"  Yes — to  God,"  answered  Susan,  grieved  and  dis- 
tresssed ;  "  but  you,  really  Clarence,  you  must  get  up. 
You  must  stand  up  like  a  man." 

"  Do  only  women  kneel  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  to  be  sure ;  I  hope  so,"  she  replied  quickly. 

This  seemed  to  assure  him.  He  half  rose,  but  not 
wholly. 

"  Do  you  get  what  you  pray  for,  Susy  ?" 

"  I  hope  so — oh  I  don't  know.  You  must  not  talk 
about  it,  Clarence  ;  and  do  please  get  up  !" 

But  in  spite  of  her  distress,  Clarence  continued  kneel- 
ing, his  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  and  his  eyes  closed, 
praying  evidently,  as  he  understood  it. 

"  When  shall  I  get  it  ?"  said  he,  looking  up  again. 

"  Oh,  Clarence — you  are  all  wrong  !  This  is  not  tho 
way.  It  may  not  come  in  a  hundred  years,  and  perhaps 
never — never,  I  should  think  with  your  kneeling  down  to 
me!" 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  prayed  for,"  he  said,  now 
rising.  "  I  prayed  that  David  might  never  come  back. 
He  said  he  should  to  morrow — he  has  only  gone  off  fish- 
ing. I  saw  you  in  the  colonnade  with  him  yesterday. 
What  was  it  you  were  doing?" 

Susan  recalled  that  brief  walk,  and  the  conversation  that 
had  then  taken  place  between  herself  and  David — a  pain- 
ful blush  appeared  upon  her  pale  face,  which  did  not  vanish 
when  she  saw  how  eagerly  Clarence  waited  for  her  answer. 


DAVID'S  KISS. — THE  CHAIN.  173 

"  I  was  talking  with  him — with  your  brother,  Clar- 
ence," she  said. 

"Yes,  T  know  you  were  But  what  did  you  talk 
about  ?"  he  asked,  with  strange  impetuosity. 

"  About  you,  mostly,  Clarence." 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  I  saw  him — saw  him  do  something  be- 
sides talk.  I  saw  him  ..." 

"  I  am  glad  you  did  !"  exclaimed  Susan,  with  rather 
desperate  haste.  "  I  'in  glad  you  saw  him  kiss  me ;  be- 
cause now  you  will  know  how  much  David  loves  you,  and 
how  wrong  it  was  for  you  to  speak  so  about  him." 

"What  had  it  to  do  with  me?"  said  Clarence,  looking 
at  Susan  much  as  though  he  suspected  her  of  an  attempt 
to  deceive  him. 

"  You  had  all  to  do  with  it,"  answered  Susan,  quickly, 
agitated  and  alarmed,  for  his  mood  was  strange,  and  her 
own  thoughts  seemed  new  and  strange  now  as  she  thought 
them,  and  she  was  full  of  fear.  "  He  kissed  me,  because 
— because  he  said  that  you  and  I  were  to  be  such  good 
friends,  and  for  nothing,  nothing  else." 

"  Is  it  so  ?  .  .  .  You  and  I  are  going  to  do  everything 
together,  did  you  know  it  ?  they  all  say  so.  And  I  have 
been  talking  to  my  father  about  it.  You  are  to  stay  here 
always  with  me ;  you  are  never,  never  going  away — " 
Susan  started  back,  as  if  in  rejection  of  the  chain  thus 
exhibited — she  thought  of  Mr.  Leighton's  letter — was 
ready  to  fly  to  him.  "  There  was  never  anybody  in  the 
world  till  you  came.  And  when  I  saw  you,"  he  continued, 
speaking  now  in  his  usual  gentle  tone,  and  quiet  manner, 
"  you  know  how  it  was.  It  was  more  here  thanliere," 
laying  his  hand  rapidly  on  his  heart  and  his  head,  "  that 
I  felt  you.  But  now  I  have  everything.  There  is  such 
a  crowd  about  me,  and  I  love  everything — only  I  felt  so 
unhappy — yes,  I  did !  about  David.  I  was  glad  when  he 


174  GETTING    ALONG. 

went.  I  hoped  he  never  would  come  back  .  .  .  You 
never  kissed  me,  Susan." 

"  And  I  never  kissed  him.  either,"  said  Susan,  warmly. 

"  Not  him  ?  oh,  yes,  I  remember.  It  was  not  your 
fault,  after  all.  And  he  only  did  it  on  my  account,  you 
say.  Because  you  and  I  were  such  good  friends.  Yes, 
to  be  sure  !  I  did  not  know  he  was  so  fond  of  me.  But 
he  is,  you  say — and  they  all  are,  I  suppose.  But  they 
never  tell  me  so — they  tell  you.  You  are  everybody.  I 
believe  I  have  my  prayer  answered.  Keep  that  for  me," 
he  gave  her  the  rosary  which  she  had  removed  from  her 
neck  and  returned  to  him.  "  And  when  I  want  you  to 
wear  it,  you  will,  will  you,  Susy  ? 

How  could  she  resist  the  pleading  of  that  voice — Susan 
took  the  rosary. 

"  But  when  you  pray,"  said  she,  "  pray  to  God,  Clar- 
ence." 

"  I  did — with  all  my  might.  I  prayed  here,  Susy," 
with  child-like  eegerness  and  simplicity  he  laid  his  hand 
on  his  forehead — "  and  will  you  go  to  church  with  me 
every  day  ?" 

"  Where,  Clarence  ?" 

"  Here." 

"  Clarence,  tell  me  who  you  were  praying  to  ?" 

"  You."  he  replied,  promptly,  as  if  surprised  that  she 
did  not  already  understand  it. 

"  Hush — do  not  say  so !  I  do  not  know  a  single  thing 
you  thought.  I  cannot  see  into  your  mind — I  cannot 
know  what  you  think,  unless  you  tell  me.  Don't  say  such 
things?'  pleaded  Susan. 

"  Where  is  He  ?"  asked  Clarence,  as  if  disappointed, 
and  unbelieving. 

"  Here,"  Susan  laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart,  her  eyes 
lifted  toward  heaven — he  was  watchful  only  of  the  former 
movement. 


THE    GROWING    MIND    AND    HEART.  175 

"  Yes,  I  know  it!"  he  smiled,  triumphant. 

"  And  here,  too,"  Susan  laid  her  hand  on  his  breast — 
he  caught  and  held  it — "  and  there,"  she  pointed  with  her 
freed  hand  to  the  world  without — "  everywhere  !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Clarence,  gravely,  bowing  his  assent,  "  I 
know  it.  I  will  pray  to  Him."  But  he  seemed  now  con- 
firmed in  his  opinion  rather  than  in  the  reception  of  any 
new  idea. 

"  Our  Creator  he  is,  you  know  ;  He  made  us,"  said  Susan. 

':  Yes,  you — He  made  you,  you  made  me.  You  made 
me  here  and  here,"  pointing  again  rapidly  from  heart  to 
head.  l- 1  felt  not  anything.  I  knew  not  anything  till  I 
came  to  you.  You  made  me.  They  all  say  so.  I  hear 
them  talking  about  it — everybody." 

"  That  makes  me  wretched — it  is  so  wicked  for  you 
to  talk  such  things,"  said  Susan,  not  knowing  what  to  say. 

"  Is  it,  Susy,  wicked  ?" 

"  Yes   .    .    .    and  I  am  so  very  tired,  Clarence." 

"  Are  you  ?"  he  started  up.  "  Then  I  will  go  ... 
But  where  shall  I  go,  Susy  ?  I  am  all  alone  when  I  go 
from  here.  There  's  no  one  in  the  house  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  yes — down  in  the  drawing-room — you  will  find 
them  all  there — Isidore,  your  sister,  and — " 

"  Isidore — there  's  no  one  !  There  was  nobody  in  this 
great  house,  as  big  as  all  the  world,  and  nobody  in  it,  till 
you  came.  Don't  scold  me ;  it 's  true.  I  have  them  all 
when  you  are  there  .  .  .  But,  oh !  it  's  so — so  dark  with- 
out you,  and  cold  _.  .  .  I  was  dead  !"  said  he,  smiting  his 
breast,  "  but  you  came  .  .  .  What  is  it  you  have  done, 
Susy  ?  tell  me,"  he  laid  his  hand  on  Susan's  arm,  and 
looked  bewildered  and  doubting  into  her  face.  "  Do  I 
look  as  I  used  to  look  ?  I  forget  about  it,  myself  I  mean. 
What  was  I  ?" 

"  Oh,  Clarence,  I  have  done  nothing,"  said  Susan,  with 
difficulty  speaking,  so  oppressed,  and  excited,  and  troubled 


176  GETTING    ALONU. 

was  she ;  "  you  were  what  you  are  always,  Clarence,  and 
everybody  loved  you." 

"  Everybody  !"  he  looked  at  her  with  so  wise  and  bright 
a  glance  as  he  repeated  that  word  that  her  own  eyes 
drooped,  as  they  might  have  done  before  the  glance  of 
David  : — so  joyously  that  the  look  went  like  a  wound 
through  her  heart.  "  Are  you  so  tired,  Susy  ?  Let  me 
get  you  a  glass  of  wine.  But  do  not  send  me  away.  Lie 
down,  and  I  will  watch  here  while  you  sleep,  and  no  one 
shall  disturb  you.  Do  not  make  me  go ;  for  then  I  begin 
to  wonder,  and  wonder,  till  I  cannot  tell  whether  I  am  I, 
or  there  is  any  Susy  in  the  house  till  I  come  up  again, 
and  stand  by  your  door,  and  somebody  oomes  to  tell  me 
you  are  there.  You  said  that  everybody  loves  me,  Susy  ; 
do  you  always  speak  the  truth  ?  Do  you  love  me  ?" 

And  there  he  sat,  and  talked  and  talked,  and  the  mo- 
ments dragged  "  their  slow  length  along,"  and  it  seemed 
to  Susan — though  she  could  but  dimly  suspect  it.  for  the 
fear  did  not  take  the  form  of  a  complete  thought  in  her 
mind,  but,  instead,  haunted  her  with  a  vague  sense  and 
foreboding  of  misery — that,  in  proportion  to  the  influx 
of  life  into  the  brain  of  Clarence,  there  was  an  outgoing 
of  vitality  from  the  blood  that  ran  along  her  veins. 


XXXI. 

A  FEW  hours  later,  with  the  twilight,  Mr.  Falcon  came 
into  Susan's  room  ;  he  came  with  cheerful  chat  and  sooth- 
ing words,  and  an  exhaustless  store  of  them.  Now  it 
may  be  thought  that,  for  one  so  desolate  as  Susan,  for 
one  so  occupied  with  troubled  reflections  and  doubts,  and 
indecisions,  this  peaceful  and  generous  nature  was  the 
one,  of  all  others,  into  contact  with  which  she  should 
come. 


THE  CONSOLER'S  OE  THE  ORPHAN.  177 

And  she  did  look  and  long  for  him,  and  for  no  other 
person  in  the  house.  When  Isidore  came,  she  brought 
no  satisfaction  with  her ;  she  was  so  restless,  so  absorbed 
in  her  own  plans,  and  notions,  and  engagements ;  she 
knew  so  little  what  word  to  say,  of  all  the  words  of  wis- 
dom that  might  fitly  have  been  spoken  there,  that  by  no 
chance  did  she  ever  fall  upon  the  right  one.  Her  con- 
solations were  not  consoling.  Her  sympathies  were  mere 
lifeless,  parrotic  speeches,  repeated  like  a  lesson  so  many 
times  a  day.  But  she  was  a  fine  thing  to  look  at,  and 
Susan's  eyes  never  tired  of  that  occupation,  for  Isidore's 
magnificence  was  a  ceaseless  astonishment  to  her  untu- 
tored sight ;  but  when  Isidore  was  gone  again — invaria- 
bly it  was  so — the  eyes  that  had  been  so  dazzled  ached, 
and  the  heart  of  the  child  turned  back  and  looked  at 
itself,  and  was  lonelier  than  before.  No  one  beside  Mr. 
Falcon,  there,  could  speak  the  words  that  young  human 
heart  pined  to  hear.  Mr.  Baldwin  was  considerate  in  his 
way ;  he  carried  Susan  about  in  his  arms  from  one  part 
of  the  house  to  another,  before  she  had  strength  to  walk, 
and  he  talked  much  to  her,  and  kindly ;  but  the  talk  was 
so  often  of  Clarence,  so  rarely  of  anything  beside ;  and 
frequently  he  said  strange  things,  which  she  dared  not, 
would  not  understand — how,  when  Isidore  was  married, 
she,  Susan,  must  be  at  the  head  of  his  house,  and  that 
he  must  look  up  a  husband  for  her,  too ;  and  with  such 
words  as  these  he  always  brought  the  name  of  Clarence 
into  close  connection.  And  Clarence,  before  whom  these 
words  were  often  said,  evidently  treasured  them  all  in  his 
heart,  and  thought  upon  them  much  and  long,  Yet, 
while  his  father  spoke  such  words,  the  youth  seemed  to 
listen  not  with  his  own  ear — the  sound  came  to  him 
through  Susan's  heart.  He  did  not  receive  and  under- 
stand it  altogether  joyously.  Fears  he  did  not  com- 
prehend, doubts  he  could  not  quite  discover,  came  with 
8* 


178  GETTING    ALONG. 

the  words,  and  troubled  him ;  he  saw  no  smiles  in  Susan's 
face,  such  as  would  have  folded  those  words  of  his  father 
in  the  glory  of  an  ascertained  assurance.  He  was  rest- 
less, unhappy  ;  and,  as  yet,  he  knew  not  why. 

While  Susan  waited,  and  longed  for  Mr.  Falcon,  she 
was  like  a  house  divided  against  itself.  She  listened  for 
his  step  in  the  hall,  hoping,  yet  dreading,  to  hear  it.  She 
shrunk  from  the  thought  of  revealing  to  him  all  that  had 
passed  through  her  mind  since  she  last  saw  him.  Not 
that  she  was  fearful  of  revealing  it  in  speech ;  but,  if  he 
had  Mr.  Leighton's  sight,  he  would  not  fail  to  discover 
how  much,  and  even  wherefore,  she  was  troubled — that 
she  had  undergone  some  evil  change — that  David  had 
walked  with  her  yesterday  in  the  colonnade,  and  that 
since  then  the  world  had  been  growing  darker  and  colder 
— darker,  colder  even  than  it  was  on  the  night  when  she 
watched  a  boat  that  struggled  with  the  storm,  and  went 
down  before  her  eyes  into  the  deep  sea,  with  her  father. 

How  was  it  possible  that  words,  so  kindly  spoken  as  all 
David's  were  to  her,  should  only  vex,  and  trouble,  and 
grieve  her  ?  they  had  this  sole  result.  Could  he  find 
nothing  but  that  theme,  exhausted  by  the  others,  for  the 
burden  of  his  speech  ?  whichever  way  she  turned,  must 
it  still  be  the  image  of  Clarence  that  was  forced  upon  her 
sight  ? 

When  Mr.  Falcon  came  she  would  ask  him,  Susan  said 
to  herself,  if  an  opportunity  presented,  nay,  whether  there 
were  opportunity  or  not,  she  would  ask  him  what  that 
great  change  which  had  taken  place  in  Clarence  since  she 
came  to  the  Hall  actually  meant  and  portended.  He 
was  'certainly,  as  they  all  said,  another  being ;  his  list- 
lessness  an,d  apathy  were  gone — he  was  alive  again — he 
had  full  possession  of  his  reason — how  changed  his  bear- 
ing and  his  conversation  were ! 

Everything  around  her,  every  event   that  happened 


THE    LAST    OUNCE.  179 

there,  however  trivial,  concerning  the  family  or  herself, 
seemed  now  so  portentous  ;  she  was  lost  in  a  swift-rush- 
ing current,  and  knew  not  whither  she  was  bound;  she 
roused  herself,  but  was  powerless,  as  if  a  spell  were  upon 
her — she  could  not  cry  aloud  for  help.  And  yet  help 
was  now  so  near,  even  within  her  call.  She  held  Mr. 
Leighton's  letter  in  her  hand — could  she  not  go  to  him  ? 

When  Mr.  Falcon  came,  these  thoughts  vanished  like 
phantoms  ;  a  sense  of  security  took  their  place  when  his 
kindly  face  appeared  again  before  her.  Like  a  bird 
caught  out  in  a  violent  storm,  she  rushed  into  that  genial 
presence  for  shelter.  Had  he  known  the  fear  that  pur- 
sued her,  how  would  he  have  folded  her  in  his  bosom — 
how  effectually  would  he  have  soothed  her  ! 

She  did  not  tell  him  of  the  letter  Mr.  Leighton  wrote 
— how  it  had  come  to  her — and  what  it  was  doiug  for 
her.  The  nearest  approach  she  made  to  the  discovery 
of  the  fact  was  not  to  him  significant ;  he  saw  nothing  in 
the  request  she  made  that  he  would  ask  Stella  Gammon 
to  come  up  to  the  Hall  sometime  to-morrow,  and  he 
attached  no  peculiar  significance  to  Susan's  thanks,  when 
he  assured  her  that  Stella  should  have  the  message  early 
in  the  morning. 

But,  by-and-bye  it  happens,  in  their  quiet  twilight 
talk,  that  Clarence  comes  to  be  the  topic  of  their  con- 
versation ;  and  Susan  is  saying — so  naturally  the  question 
drops  from  her  lips,  that  the  sound  of  it  has  a  strange 
tone  to  her,  and  a  strange  effect  upon  her,  as  if  it  had 
been  supernaturally  uttered : 

"  Clarence  is  well  again,  Mr.  Falcon." 

"  Yes,  Susan,  almost  well ;"  and  he  added,  quick  to 
take  advantage  of  the  opportunity  she  gave  him,  "  do 
you  know,  Susan,  the  good  fairy  who  has  wrought  the 
change?" 

Too  honest  was  her  heart  for  subterfuge.     She  chose 


180  GETTING    ALONG. 

rather  to  be  silent  than  reply ;  but  he  asked  her  again, 
and  then  she  answered  : 

"  He  says  that  I  have  done  it,  Mr.  Falcon." 

"  Yes  !  you  are  the  fairy.  You  are  his  good  angel. 
You  have  reason  to  feel  proud,  Susan,  or.  at  least, 
thankful." 

Susan  answered  nothing.  She  felt  neither  thankful  nor 
proud  of  what  she  had  done,  if  anything  she  had  done. 
But,  on  the  contrary,  in  view  of  what  was  imputed  to  her, 
very  miserable. 

"  But  the  work  is  not  quite  finished  yet,"  said  Mr. 
Falcon.  "  You  have  not  forgotten  your  books,  I  am  sure 
— you  were  so  fond  of  them.  When  you  are  strong 
enough,  you  have  but  to  say  the  word,  and  we  three,  Clar- 
ence, and  you  and  I,  will  walk  into  the  library  and  go  to 
work.  Clarence  must  begin  at  the  beginning,  and  with 
you  to  help  him  on,  we  shall  make  rapid  progress.  See, 
now,  what  a  work  is  before  you  !  And  only  think,  Susan, 
that  it  should  have  been  given  you  to  do  what  no  phy- 
sician on  earth  could  have  done ;  so,  at  least,  I  firmly  be- 
lieve. It  must  be  a  great  joy  to  you  to  be  able  to  make 
so  many  people  happy.  You  have  given  a  son  to  Mr. 
Baldwin,  and  a  brother  to  David,  and  a  man  to  the  world. 
Why  that  thought  alone  should  bring  back  the  color  to 
your  cheek,  and  make  it  brighter  than  it  ever  was.  I 
know  not  any  one  so  worthy  of  congratulation  as  you." 

What  reply  could  Susan  make  ?  Mr.  Falcon  was  so 
sincere  in  everything  he  said,  he  so  evidently  meaut  what 
he  had  spoken ;  it  never  entered  his  heart  to  imagine  that 
she  could  feel  any  emotion  but  the  liveliest  joy  in  view 
of  all  the  change  that  had  been  wrought  in  Clarence  ! 

Her  voice  would  not  help  her  to  speak  out  her  trouble 
— she  found  not  a  word  to  say.  Her  fear  now  was  that 
she  should  not  be  able  to  so  guard  her  sense  of  calamity 
as  to  have  no  suspicion  of  its  existence  roused*  in  his 


SUSAN'S  WORK.  181 

mind ;  that  he  would  see  how  far  she  was  from  rejoicing 
in  her  involuntary  work ;  how,  in  her  heart,  she  wished 
that  she  had  never  heard  of  St.  John's,  never  come  into 
contact  with  Clarence,  never  seen  one  of  these  people ; 
how  even  now  she  was  proposing  to  her  heart  a  flight  from 
the  Hall  and  city,  reckless  of  consequences ;  eager  only 
to  escape  from  the  work  she  had  yet  to  do.  The  pity  she 
had  felt  for  Clarence  was  no  longer  pity — was  it  dread  ? 
was  it  hate  ?  aversion  ?  what  was  it  ?  She  dared  not  scan 
too  closely  the  features  of  that  new  impulse  and  feeling. 

He  called  it  her  work  !  Mr.  Falcon  said  that  none  but 
she  could  do  it.  That  Clarence  was  growing  into  man- 
hood, but  the  nourishment  for  the  growth  must  be  given 
by  her :  she  was  his  sunlight,  his  spring  in  the  dry  land, 
his  atmosphere ;  but  for  her  this  goodly  prospect  of 
growth  would  disappear — the  budding  strength  would 
wither,  the  life  be  pent  again.  He  showed  how  vast  the 
work  was.  That  it  was  no  mere  work  of  time  and  sense, 
for  time  and  sense,  eternity  and  spirit,  were  involved  in 
its  issue.  Her  influence  over  him,  Mr.  Falcon  said,  reach- 
ed further  than  a  mother's  over  her  child.  The  impulses 
of  Clarence  were  good,  his  nature  kind ;  she  could  give 
a  man  to  humanity,  a  good  man  to  a  noble  future. 

It  was  hers,  hers  alone,  to  direct  him — to  foster  in  him 
all  that  was  best  in  his  nature  ;  to  open  his  eyes  to  life ; 
to  show  him  the  good  that  could  be  done — the  way  that 
he  might  do  it.  Every  word  he  spoke  suggested  to  Susan's 
mind  a  contrast — what  ideal  man  was  he  depicting  ?  it 
was  not  a  man  like  David  ;  and  half-angrily,  unbelieving, 
disquieted,  the  child  resisted  and  fought  in  her  soul ;  but 
the  speaker  went  on  unaware,  holding  her  in  his  firm 
grasp  as  he  showed  the  path  by  which,  so  his  words  said, 
she  was  to  go. 

The  quiet  of  the  hour,  the  shadows  in  the  room,  the 
silence  of  the  listener,  the  greatness  of  the  theme,  as  he 


182  GETTING    ALONG. 

regarded  it,  led  him  on  ;  resistless  the  tide  of  words  went 
forth,  until  the  child  lay  as  one  buried  beneath  them. 

Falcon  limited  his  prophetic  vision  not  to  time,  I  said. 
He  showed  Clarence  to  her,  not  the  active  and  labori- 
ous youth,  but  more  than  that :  as  a  man  triumphant,  who 
had  fought  the  fight  with  the  sure  weapons  she  had  given 
him — a  man,  bringing  in  a  harvest  of  great  deeds  re- 
joicing to  the  heavens ! 

All  was  in  her  hands,  again  and  again  he  repeated  it. 
He  talked  not  to  her  as  to  a  child.  He  had  come  pre- 
pared to  say  these  things  as  to  a  thinking  audience.  He 
threw  upon  Susan  the  responsibilities  of  womanhood. 
And  with  a  two-fold  purpose.  To  arouse  her  from  her 
grief,  and  despondency,  and  loneliness — to  quicken  her 
brain  with  a  great  idea,  and  her  heart  with  a  large  ambi- 
tion ;  and  for  the  sake  of  Clarence  as  well — for  he  spoke 
the  simple  truth ;  with  her,  as  he  averred,  did  rest  the  fu- 
ture manhood  of  this  recovered  youth. 

And  as  she  listened  to  him,  Susan  trembled  with  the 
thought,  with  the  irresolution,  the  shame  of  the  irresolu- 
tion, and  the  anguish  that  divided  her  heart.  For,  as  he 
spoke,  Mr.  Falcon's  words  were  attended  with  an  instant 
conviction  in  her  soul — it  was  all  truth  that  he  said  ; 
before  her  was  that  for  which  she  must  live !  and  should 
she  shrink  from  this  work,  leave  it  at  the  point  where,  for 
the  first  time,  it  would  become  a  work  with  her  ? 

Solemnly  she  asked  herself  this  question  while  the 
good  man  spoke ;  and  after  he  was  gone,  when  she  was 
left  alone,  before  her  mind  uprose  the  future  which  Mr. 
Falcon  painted,  and  more  than  his  hands  sketched  her 
eyes  beheld,  and  she  shrunk  back,  and  tried  to  shut  the 
sight  from  her  eyes  ;  but  to  herself,  and  the  eternal  spirits, 
who  watch  conflicts  like  these,  she  said  at  length  :  "  Yes 
— it  must  be  so — I  must  stay — I  must  try." 

Well  Susan  knew,  making  the  promise,  all  it  would 


ACCEPTATION    OF    WORK.  183 

necessitate.  Day  after  day  she  must  conduct  that  mys- 
terious labor,  stifled,  awed,  and  fearful — what  was  it  she 
was  doing  ?  and  grow  weak  as  he  grew  strong  to  compel 
destiny — give  him  of  her  life  to  complete  his  .  .  .  she 
could  do  it — if  he  would  only  not  love  her.  She  who  so 
lived  on  love  !  whose  longing  was  for  love  !  if  he  would 
not  be  content  to  sit  hour  after  hour  looking  into  her 
face ;  if  he  would  not  talk  to  her,  and  tell  her  that  she 
was  everything  to  him,  and  that  the  house  had  no  one  be- 
side her  for  him  ;  if  he  would  not  hold  her  hand,  as  if  he 
thus  were  making  good  his  claim,  and  say  with  so  plead- 
ing a  voice,  "  Do  you  see,  Susy?  Do  you  understand  ?" 
when  his  father  would  in  some  way  advert  to  the  thought 
now  constantly  uppermost  in  his  mind.  But  .  .  .  she 
was  her  own  no  longer.  She  never  more  could  be. 

Mr.  Falcon  had  not  spoken  as  if  her  work  were  ever, 
while  she  lived,  to  have  an  end.  Did  she  then  belong  to 
Clarence  ?  What  strange  robbery  was  this  against  which 
she  dared  not  make  complaint?  why  should  the  thought 
of  so  poor,  so  worthless  a  thing  as  her  own  life  trouble 
her  ?  What  could  David,  so  splendid,  so  mighty,  what 
could  he  ever  be  to  her  ?  He  was  only  the  brother  of 
Clarence — he,  like  the  rest,  cared  only  for  her  because 
Clarence,  through  her,  was  coming  to  life  again. 

But  she  would  not  hold  fast  to  this  unwelcome  belief — 
though  she  remembered  the  strange  fancies  and  speculation 
into  which  Stella's  visit  had  thrown  her  a  few  days  after 
she  had  come  again  to  St.  John's  for  a  home  .  .  .  when, 
David  and  Stella  talked  together  to  interest  and  beguile 
the  suffering  child ;  how  the  picture  their  beauty  made 
lingered  in  memory  !  though  this  fact  of  their  conversa- 
tion, and  these  fancies  that  grew  out  of  it,  she  remem- 
bered, and  said  again,  as  often  before,  that  David  might 
well  love  one  like  Stella  Gammon ;  still  the  fact  and  vision, 
and  the  duty  that  sternly  waited  for  her  now,  could  not 


184  GETTING    ALONG. 

prevent  the  dream  of  the  beach  from  also  returning — and 
the  golden  gate  of  that  dream  had  no  bolt  nor  bar  that 
she  should  not  go  in — but,  having  entered,  she  slept  on  a 
bed  of  thorns. 

And  yet,  the  next  morning  as  she  rose,  and  for 
the  first  time  since  her  illness,  dressed  herself  without 
assistance,  and  went  out  into  the  hall,  she  was  saying  in 
one  form  or  another  continually  to  herself,  "  If  Stella 
comes  to-day,  I  '11  not  ask  a  word  about  Mr.  Leighton. 
I  must  stay  here  and  be  useful,  as  Mr.  Falcon  said. 
Stella  shall  know  nothing  of  the  letter." 


XXXII. 

THAT  was  a  marvellous  influx  of  life  in  which  the 
Chilton's  were  now  rejoicing ;  and  great  was  the  change 
it  wrought  in  the  household.  It  brought  the  hidden 
nature  of  each  member  of  it  out  into  a  new  and  bold 
relief;  you  will  hardly  recognize  these  characters.  A 
richer,  or  at  least  a  flashier,  wine  of  life  they  have 
drunken — does  it  intoxicate  them  ?  They  are,  the  family, 
and  each  member  of  it,  maintaining  new  relations — and 
how? 

Mrs.  Chilton  in  St.  John's  is  not  Mrs.  Ghilton  in  Har- 
lem. She  is  at  least  ten  years  younger — she  is  a  little 
anxious  still,  a  little  troubled  about  many  things,  but  her 
face  is  not  so  furrowed  as  it  was — she  smiles  oftener,  she 
is  sailing  through  a  smoother  sea. 

There  are,  it  is  true,  even  in  the  present  circumstances 
of  the  family,  some  points  to  which  she  will  never  be 
quite  reconciled,  nor  need  she  be,  for  the  points  must 
have  removal.  Isidore  Baldwin  is  rather  more  of  a 
stumbling-block  in  her  way  than  Mrs.  Chilton  antici- 
pated— for  the  older  lady  is  held  by  the  younger  in  a 


MRS.    CHILTONT   AND    THE    OPPORTUNITY.  185 

strange  debt  of  obligation,  on  account  of  all  the  favor  her 
father  has  conferred,  and  the  patronage  she  bestows  is 
galling  to  the  nice  sense,  offensive  to  the  good  taste  of 
Mrs.  Chilton. 

Regularly  on  each  succeeding  Sunday,  that  good  lady, 
accompanied  sometimes  by  Horace,  not  so  often  by  Leah, 
dines  at  the  Hall,  and  that  is  indeed  "  the  day  of  all  the 
seven,"  to  her.  Occasionally  during  these  weekly  visits, 
she  is  subjected  to  vexations  and  mortifications,  for  which 
she  might  continue  to  look,  in  all  reason  ;  no  one  under- 
stands this  better  than  she,  in  her  advances  towards 
society ;  for  she  is  in  St.  John's  indeed,  but  yet  not  "  in 
society."  .  .  .  There  will  come  a  day — she  lives  in  the 
belief,  it  is  her  day-dream  and  night-vision — when  these 
Baldwins  shall  be  proved  the  mere  aids  to  her  progress 
towards  the  regions  she  seeks.  For  she  will  reign  again 
amidst  this  generation,  she  believes — ay,  verily,  she  shall, 
through  her  son,  or  her  daughter,  why  does  she  not  say  ? 
For  the  simple  reason  that  such  substitution  is  not  what 
she  craves.  There,  in  her  parlor  at  this  moment,  sits  the 
old  gray-haired  man  who  handed  her  to  dinner  when  last 
she  dined  at  Ishmael's ;  and  he  is  babbling  by  the  hour, 
of,  heaven  knows  what,  and  watchful  of  her  with  his 
greedy  eyes,  and  thinking  that  his  great  house  in  a 
neighboring  square  might  as  well  be  thrown  open  again, 
if  this  graceful  and  brilliant  woman  could  be  induced 
to  transfer  herself  thither.  With  courteous  grace  the 
widow  listens  to  the  old  man,  and  never  seems 
to  weary,  and  she  thinks  to  herself — what  she  would 
not  have  thought  had  that  same  poor  old  creature 
descended  her  basement  steps,  and  knocked  at  the  ser- 
vant's door,  clad  outwardly  in  such  beggarly  rags  as 
his  spirit  within  put  on  when  he  was  young,  and  wore 
now,  unchanged  and  unchangeable,  in  his  soul's  decrepi- 
tude. He  is  a  miserly,  abhorrent  old  man  ;  but  for  all 


186  GETTING   ALONG. 

that,  the  wealthiest  banker  in  St.  John's :  a  portion  of 
these  facts  he  himself  tells  IVIrs.  Ghilton — she  sees  with 
her  eyes  the  remainder :  with  the  eyes  so  worn  out  and 
useless,  which  yet  can  see  these  facts — yes,  even  they 
can  see  them. 

So  Mrs.  Chilton  was  going  in  her  own  paths,  and  the 
time  she  believed  would  come  to  an  end  when  her  son 
alone  of  the  house  would  be  known  in  society.  She  her- 
self, his  mother  would  yet  flash  through  the  St.  John's 
drawing  rooms  in  a  great  pomp  of  diamonds  and  brocade. 
Her  rooms  once  more  would  shine  resplendent  with  gas 
and  magnificence — would  echo  with  the  voices  of  rich 
men,  and  well-dressed  women. 

The  old  man  was  a  miser,  it  was  said,  but  he  had  no 
heirs,  and  certainly  could  not  expect,  at  least  could  not 
be  expected,  to  live  forever  .  .  .  Heaven  help  her,  what 
old  man  is  she  thinking  of  ?  .  .  .  Since  the  hour  when 
she  began  to  think  this  woman  has  fallen  .  .  .  but  she 
surely  has  not  come  to  this  ?  To  what  ?  to  the  embrace 
of  palsy,  corruption,  and  imbecility  !  Peace,  reader  !  Do 
you  think  her  mind  is  on  these  things — that  such  insane 
bestiality  as  this  possesses  her  ?  it  is  the  closed  house  in 
the  square,  with  the  richly-ornamented  frontage — the 
great  windows,  and  the  reported  splendor  hidden  within  ; 
and  what  though  an  idiot  guarded  the  portal  ?  Mrs. 
(Jliilton  was,  assuredly,  getting  along.  Will  not  society 
receive  her  ?  she  will  reign  a  marvel  of  grace ; — oh 
mothers,  she  will  matronize  your  daughters,  and  rare 
feasting  you  shall  have,  all  you  elect,  at  her  glittering 
and  richly-laden  table. 

Side  by  side  with  her  worked  her  son, — and  what 
reverence  and  homage  he  had  for  this  guest  whose  car- 
riage was  drawn  up  so  often  before  their  door  !  llcspect 
for  age  was  certainly  a  new  evolution  from  the  character 


THE    TOOL    BOX.  187 

of  Horace  :  he  had  indeed  become,  in  this  respect,  a 
model  youth  ! 

But  his  vision  was  one  that  eclipsed  his  mother's. 
Horace  surprised  himself  by  the  discovery  within  him- 
self, since  they  came  up  to  St.  John's  to  live,  of  new  ca- 
pacities of  whose  existence  he  had  not  before  suspected. 
Not  that  his  genius  was  unveiled  more  definitely  before 
his  mind  by  the  labors  of  the  engineer's  office.  He  had, 
in  the  multitude  of  his  distractions,  no  capacity  for  per- 
ception of  the  revelations  of  genius,  even  had  they  been 
made. 

His  vision  was  not  of  labor,  and  what  without  labor 
is  genius  ?  What  is  capacity,  however  great,  in  the 
hands  of  a  vain  and  idle  being  ?  He  hated  the  engi- 
neer's office  as  he  hated  the  pill  and  powder  business  .  .  . 
But  the  difference  was  in  the  manifestation — he  found 
compensation  in  infinite  degree  for  the  degradations  of 
labor  in  St.  John's,  and  no  complaint  against  friends  or 
fortune  now  escaped  him.  Mr.  Baldwin,  the  father  of 
Isidore,  had  placed  him  in  that  situation — Mr.  Baldwin 
talked  encouragingly  of  his  prospects — and  the  engineer 
was  well  satisfied  with  the  young  man's  work,  inasmuch 
as  the  payment  for  his  services  was  regularly  advanced 
by  Mr.  Baldwin,  though  unknown  to  Horace.  He  could 
do  no  other  wise  than  labor ;  his  patron  was  well  pleased 
with  his  success ;  and  Leah,  ever  watchful,  ever  hopeful 
of  good,  built  up  from  these  signs  and  tokens  the  most 
honorable  future  for  Horace  ;  and  anticipated,  unhindered 
by  any  distractions  of  doubt,  a  noble  fulfilment  of  all  his 
boyish  prophecies,  and  the  fond  hopes  in  which  both  she 
and  he  found  once  delight  together.  Leah  had  not  for  a 
long  time  looked  into  the  tool-box,  that  sacred  depository 
in  which  their  father's  treasure  was  contained.  Had  she 
done  so  she  would  have  better  understood  how  Horace 
managed,  out  of  the  wages  of  his  labor,  to  sustain  the 


188  GETTING   ALONG. 

family  so  generously.  One  by  one  those  precious  tools 
had  vanished  from  the  box,  and  were  hidden  safe  from 
sight  again,  in  a  pawnbroker's  shop — until  now,  when  the 
stock  was  nearly  exhausted,  Horace  contemplated  a 
bargain  for  their  actual  sale,  with  no  other  thought  or 
feeling  than  had  reference  to  the  good  bargain  he  could 
make.  But  insignificant  as  they  seemed  to  himself, 
Horace  was  careful  that  Leah  should  not  discover  these 
facts  ;  he  could  argue  himself  very  readily  into  the  belief 
that  he  had  done  the  right  and  proper  thing;  but  he 
knew  that  she  could  not  be  brought  to  see  in  that  light. 
There  was  no  need  for  him  to  ask  her  counsel,  he  said 
to  himself  in  the  first  hesitating  moments,  when  he 
thought  the  matter  over;  he  knew  what  her  counsel 
would  be  without  asking ;  and  it  was,  especially  since 
she  did  not  seem  to  be  quite  well,  it  was  really  so  trifling 
a  matter  that  it  was  not  worth  while  to  trouble  her.  As 
to  his  mother,  this  was,  of  cqurse,  a  subject  with  which 
she  had  nothing  to  do.  If  there  was  nothing  else  in  life 
that  he  correctly  understood  and  appreciated,  Horace 
did  understand  and  appreciate  his  mother.  It  could  not 
be  otherwise  when  he  had  discovered  that  she  was  re- 
produced in  him. 

Horace  was  living  in  the  very  sphere  that  must  in- 
evitably deaden  all  his  early  sensibilities,  every  true  and 
generous  feeling.  Because  they  had  no  root  they  must 
wither  away.  He  seemed  so  adapted  to  the  present,  that 
it  was  no  longer  surprising  that  he  had  been  wretched  in 
the  past.  Everything  now  tended  to  induce  a  speedy 
development  of  nature — but  it  was  not  quite  such  as 
Leah  looked  for — nor  such  as  he  had  anticipated.  He 
had  pined  for  a  sphere  and  opportunity  .  .  .  now  that 
these  were  granted,  see  what  he  made  of  them  ! 

The  show  of  the  world,  into  which,  under  Isidore's  pat- 
ronage, he  immediately  came — for  in  Colonel  Wheaton's 


TASTE    AND    INSPIRATION.  189 

absence  Horace  could  be  of  great  use  to  Ler,  his  unex- 
ceptionable person  and  address,  the  ease  with  which  he 
adapted  himself  to  every  circumstance  of  a  life  of  show, 
rendered  him  invaluable  to  her — this  show  and  seeming 
dazzled,  and  enchanted,  and  allured  him.  He  had,  in- 
deed, even  thus  found  his  sphere  and  occupation — is  any- 
thing more  than  this  needful  in  order  that  a  human  being 
shall  get  on  ? 

Horace  was  no  true  artist ;  nor  ever  would  he  be,  in 
spite  of  his  boyhood's  aspirations  :  he  was  proving,  with 
the  first  opportunity,  that  the  outward  and  fictitious  were 
inexhaustible  in  glory  and  beauty  to  him.  Not  like 
Vane  could  he  discover  the  interior  life  through  all  this 
seeming,  the  life  which  gives  all  worth  to  the  outward 
evidence.  The  permeating  truth  escaped  him.  That 
which  it  did  vitalize  was  worthless  to  him,  for  it  ap- 
peared and  could  only  appear  to  his  mind  superficially : 
he  could  not  detect  that  which  the  true  artist  perceives 
and  acknowledges,  as  the  helpmate,  the  deliverer  of  his 
inspiration. 

So  was  he  prepared  to  throw  himself  into  every  al- 
luring fancy ;  and  in  some  minds  the  allurements  of 
fancy  are  but  the  suggestions  of  vice.  There  was  not  an 
invulnerable  point  in  his  character  ;  he  held  his  princi- 
ples with  a  loose  rein ; — the  waves  of  temptation  could 
scarcely — come  in  what  light  they  might,  fair  as  morning, 
golden  as  noonday,  resplendent  as  evening,  black  as 
night — could  scarcely  beat  in  vain  against  him.  A  slight 
wall  of  defence  enclosed  his  nature,  and  the  very  novelty 
of  his  position  it  was,  that  now  maintained  it.  He  might 
have  passed  through  life  in  Harlem  unallured  by  any  of 
the  temptations,  puerile  or  gross,  which  beset  him  there — 
but  the  city's  fine  show  of  evil  was  another  thing ;  and 
doubtless,  since  this  is  true  of  all  men  and  women,  the 
day  and  the  hour  would  yet  discover  him  in  which  his 


100  GETTING   ALONG. 

moral  character  should  have  its  further,  utmost  test,  and 
should  receive  its  seal. 

Nay,  what  did  that  vacant  tool-box  testify  ?  One  need 
not  become  an  obscene  drunkard  in  order  to  make  mani- 
fest his  baptism  into  evil. 

He,  too,  was  dreaming  his  dream ;  it  had  already 
changed  from  its  original  form,  and  was  now  not  a  dream, 
but  a  desire  and  hope.  The  transition  was  gradual. 
Not  slow  indeed,  and  still  not  sudden.  Not  so  sudden 
as  to  surprise  him  and  alarm  him  out  of  it  by  its  mani- 
fest absurdity.  Did  Isidore  not  smile  on  him  ?  Did 
she  not  prefer  him,  when  she  needed  an  escort  or  com- 
panion, even  before  her  own  brother  ?  was  he  not  her  at- 
tendant on  the  promenade,  at  concert,  drawing-room,  and 
lecture  ?  When  her  fine  steed  bore  her  through  the  city 
streets,  and  away  on  the  country  roads,  who  was  her  most 
frequent  companion  ?  who  learned  her  songs  ?  who  se- 
lected her  music  ?  who  was  called  upon  often  as  he  to  de- 
cide on  points  of  fashion,  taste,  and  dress  ?  who,  of  all 
her  lovers  ? 

Isidore,  as  we  well  know  in  all  this,  was  but  making  use 
of  the  boy-genius  ; — he  was  to  her  a  gifted  sort  of  retainer 
who  might  be  exalted  to  serve  her  while  the  Colonel  was 
at  a  distance — and  an  excellent  servitor  he  proved  upon 
trial  Poor  Horace  !  but  who  ever  sees  himself  precisely 
as  his  neighbors  see  him  ? 

To  a  mind  like  Horace  Chilton's,  a  person  like  that  of 
Isidore  must  of  necessity  have  singular  attractions.  The 
very  pretension  of  it  dazzled  him.  He  liked  its  show. 
It  answered  for  the  real  thing ;  to  him  it  was  genuine. 
But  he  did  not  admire  and  love  it  on  account  of  its  ap- 
parent genuineness.  He  did  not  go  so  far — that,  in  short, 
was  not  needful  for  him — for  no  high  principle,  in  beauty 
or  elsewhere,  was  ever  at  stake  with  him.  Earth  had  for 
him  no  delight  comparable  with  this  basking  in  the  sun- 


HORACE    AND    SUSAN.  1'Jl 

shine — this  breathing  in  the  perfume,  and  sipping  the 
honey  cup  of  fashion. 

Even  to  Susan  Dillon's  eye,  the  change  that  had  come 
over  Horace  since  the  day  when  she  first  met  him,  was 
apparent ;  and  the  recalled  words  of  Mr.  Leighton  in  that 
very  connection,  could  but  make  upon  her  mind  an  im- 
pression disagreeable  and  abiding. 

Isidore  repeated  his  graceful  and  witty  speeches  to 
amuse  the  child  on  those  mornings  when  she  spent  a  few 
moments  chatting  in  Susan's  room.  She  was  continually 
referring  to  him  as  her  attendant  here  and  there ;  and  so 
often  was  his  name  recalled,  that  it  had  been  strange  if 
he  had  not  been  the  frequent  guest  of  Susan's  thoughts. 
She  wondered  if  he  were  now  at  work  as  once  he  promised 
himself.  It  must  be  so ;  he  seemed,  for  so  she  judged  from 
Isidore's  words,  so  happy,  and  so  well  satisfied. 

The  first  time  of  her  descent  to  the  library  she  was  able 
to  ask  these  questions  with  her  own  eyes,  if  her  voice  did 
not  utter  them.  Horace  came  into  the  house  from  the 
garden,  sent  by  Isidore,  who  had  assisted  her  father  in 
bringing  Susan  down  the  stairs.  He  was  in  no  haste  to 
come — he  was  not  in  a  mood  for  mourning  with  one  who 
mourned.  He  was  listless  and  unconcerned,  and  had  evi- 
dently well-nigh  forgotten  the  fact  of  Susan's  existence ; 
he  would,  without  reluctance,  quite  forget  it. 

It  was  a  brief,  unsatisfactory  visit,  and  the  more  so  to 
Susan,  because  the  change  in  Horace,  and  her  inability 
to  talk  with  him,  for  he  would  not  talk  with  her,  left  her 
vexed  and  surprised  at  herself,  on  whom  she  was  swift  to 
lay  the  whole  blame  of  her  dissatisfaction.  Because  she 
was  stupid,  he  could  not  say  anything;  but  yet  it  was 
not  so  once,  when  he  talked  on  and  on,  and  never  cared 
or  knew  whether  she  answered  him  or  not.  He  was  stiff, 
distant,  and  repellant.  He  spoke  to  her  of  her  father's 
death — but  he  so  spoke  of  it  that  his  words  called  up 


192  GETTING    ALONG, 

her  answering  words  that  might  as  well  have  come  from 
one  who  never  knew  a  loss — so  did  his  presence  and  his 
words  restrain  her. 

He  told  her  that  Leah  was  not  well,  but  not  till  Susan 
said  how  pale  she  looked,  and  how  tired,  the  day  that  she 
came  down  to  visit  her  not  long  ago ;  he  looked  thought- 
fully at  Susan  while  she  made  this  inquiry,  and  gave  this 
expression  of  her  opinion  about  his  sister's  health ;  and 
Susan  said,  inwardly,  observing  him,  "  Poor  fellow  !  how 
sadly  he  feels  about  it" — but  the  thought  had  not  escaped 
her  brain  and  touched  her  heart,  when  he  disputed  it,  say- 
ing, carelessly,  "  Oh,  she  will  be  well  again  in  a  day  or 
two,"  for  he  was  thinking  of  Isidore  in  the  garden,  and 
fretting  against  this  momentary  performance  of  the  duty 
to  which  the  fair  lady  had  bidden  him. 

It  was  as  much  a  relief  to  Susan  as  to  Horace,  when 
he  did,  after  a  few  minutes'  uninterested  and  meagre  con- 
versation, rise  and  take  his  leave.  But  Susan  ought  to 
have  known  better  than  annoy  him  as  she  did.  How 
stupidly,  how  little  to  the  purpose  she  had  spoken ! 
She  ought  not  to  have  asked  him  what  office  he  meant 
when  he  spoke  of  the  engineer's  office — she  ought  not  to 
have  looked  so  disappointed  when  he  gave  her  a  vague  idea 
of  his  present  occupations.  She  ought  not  to  have  said 
how  glad  she  was  that  he  had  come  to  St.  John's,  because 
now  he  could  find  out  how  to  make  a  good  use  of  his 
father's  valuable  tools,  that  were  kept  locked  so  safely 
in  the  strong  box,  which  he  showed  to  her  once,  did  he 
remember  ?  She  ought  not,  precious  as  every  opportunity 
to  dwell  upon  the  beach-life  now  seemed  to  her,  and 
eagerly  as  she  seized  on  every  chance  to  make  utterance 
of  her  love  for  all  that  she  had  lost  in  it,  thus  would  she 
atone — confess — retrieve  for  all  the  treacherous  discon- 
tent that  she  had  felt,  poor  child  ! — she  ought  not  to  have 
asked  him  if  he  recollected  the  ship  and  the  church  he 


LEAH.  ll»3 

drew  on  the  sand  with  the  sharpened  stick,  the  drawings 
which,  in  the  making,  poor  Span  marred.  Neither  should 
she  have  remembered  the  labors  of  the  old  time — only  a 
few  months  back — so  well  as  to  leave  it  possible  for  her 
to  ask  if  Leah  would  go  on  with  her  school  again  when 
she  grew  stronger  ?  She  should  have  said  nothing  that 
she  did  say  to  this  young  gentleman  genius — she  ought, 
in  fact,  to  have  been  anywhere  rather  than  in  the  place 
where  she  was  to  prove  "  such  a  deuce  of  a  bore"  to 
Horace  Chilton ;  for  such  did  he  pronounce  her,  when 
finally  he  made  good  his  escape  from  her.  Not,  under- 
stand, good  reader,  not  that  her  questioning  conveyed  in 
any,  even  the  slightest  degree,  a  reproach  to  the  mind  of 
Horace  for  a  voluntary  fall,  or  for  a  neglect  of  the  ad- 
vantages whose  absence  he  had  often  so  bitterly  deplored ; 
but  it  was  really  too  much  of  a  tax  on  the  time  of  a  man 
like  him  to  sit  there  entertaining  old  Dillon's  daughter. 


XXXIII. 

HORACE  passed  lightly  over  a  most  solemn  fact  when 
he  referred  to  the  ill  health  of  his  sister.  Indeed,  he  was 
not  aware  of  its  nature,  or  the  alarm  for  which  there  was 
occasion.  He  was  so  hurried,  so  driven,  absorbed, 
distracted,  he  had  no  time  for  such  discernment.  He 
did  not  see,  he  could  not  understand,  these  symptoms  of 
decaying  life.  He  had,  I  say  again,  no  time  for  a  thought- 
ful observation  of  them.  <Did  the  lamp  that  was  failing 
and  flickering  know  how  nearly  it  was  exhausted  ?_ 

Did  it  fail  the  faster,  and  flicker  the  more,  because  of 
an  evil,  steady  pressure  on  the  atmosphere  wherein  it 
burned,  that  failing  lamp  of  life  ?  Did  she,  who  would 
willingly  and  gladly  have  striven  till  the  extinguishment 
that  was  coming  had  come,  did  she  feel  the  heavier  dis- 

VOL.  II.  9 


1J)4  GETTING    ALONG. 

appointment,  and  the  deeper  anguish,  that  was  for  him, 
not  for  herself,  because  the  loss  was  his,  and  only  hers  by 
sympathy,  which  he  could  not  appreciate  or  understand  ? 

She  was  spared  this.  She  was  left  in  her  pleasant  de- 
lusion. It  sometimes  troubled  her  to  know  why  affairs 
went  on  as  they  did,  and  not  otherwise,  in  the  house ;  but 
still  she  was  expectant  only  of  the  best  good  for  Horace. 

Well  the  facts  of  her  brief  history  were  told — well  they 
were  adjusted. 

The  quiet  of  the  life  that  was  drawing  to  a  close  was 
marred  by  no  doubt,  no  suspicion  of  her  brother.  Her 
eyes  saw  only  glory  in  his  youth,  and  the  promise  of  an 
ever-brightening  day. 

In  spite  of  the  hardships  encountered  by  her,  Leah's 
life  had  been  a  happy  one. 

The  eye  that  delights  in  watching  the  conflicts  of 
passion — that  is  clear  and  firm  to  behold  the  battle  a 
mighty  nature  wages  between  alluring  evil  and  dissuad- 
ing good — would  find,  perhaps,  no  pleasure  in  following 
a  course  so  full  of  simple  peace  as  hers.  She  had  no 
great  and  astounding  temptations  to  combat.  She  was 
open  as  childhood  to  all  blessed  influences.  There  wore 
no  dark  corners  of  her  heart  to  which  the  sun  could  bare- 
ly penetrate.  Every  corridor  stood  open ;  balmy  breath 
and  shining  sun  had  the  freedom  of  the  temple. 

The  experiences  had  been  peaceful,  but  only  because 
she  endured  them  with  a  peaceful  heart.  She  had  strug- 
gled, but  in  meekness  and  purity,  and  with  singleness  of 
purpose ;  and  her  gentleness  had  carried  her  victorious 
through  all  conflict. 

Call  it  not  defeat,  or  a  frustration,  kind  heart,  that  she 
should  perish  in  her  youth.  That  were  to  mistake  death 
and  life.  She  had  obtained  her  victory.  Mourn  not 
that  she  should  die,  so  little  done.  Do  you  think,  in- 
deed, that  hers  was  a  small  achievement  ?  Was  there  no 


VIOLET'S  SECRET.  195 

depth  of  philosophy  in  the  calmness  of  her  submission? 
Was  there  no  triumph  achieved  when,  ceasing  to  strive, 
she  was  patient?  She  had  striven  while  they  would 
allow,  in  labors  of  service,  exhausting,  but  cheerfully  ren- 
dered for  the  household ;  but  when  those  human  hands 
prevented  her,  not  in  thoughtful  love,  and  tender  care, 
and  solemn  fear,  but  in  the  very  absurdity  of  pride  and 
vanity,  from  all  further  service,  was  it  nothing  that  she 
compelled  her  soul  to  submission,  to  quiet  ? 

Oh  thou,  who  strivest  in  the  wide  paths  of  the  world, 
where  crowds  and  tumults  are,  bethink  thee  if  the  victory 
that  crowns  thy  struggle  shall  avail  thee  as  the  humble 
acquiescence  of  this  heart ! 


XXXIV. 

WE  left  Violet  Silsey  with  an  expectation — in  a  small 
whirl  of  excitement,  which  would  certainly  not  abate  one 
jot  until  the  result  of  Lucia's  efforts  in  her  behalf  should 
be  determined. 

Violet  was  not  far  wrong  when  she  spoke  of  the  change 
in  Silsey,  which  occasioned  her  so  much  anxiety.  Her 
eyes  and  her  instincts  were  not  at  fault.  In  the  battle 
of  thoughts  and  speculations  he  was  growing  old ;  and  he 
was  not  happy. 

He  was  troubled — he  was  weary;  he,  too,  thought 
sometimes  of  a  home  in  the  quiet  country,  where  ambi- 
tion, or,  rather,  a  sphere,  for  victorious  struggle — so  he 
put  it,  and  rightly  enough — should  allure  him  no  longer 
— where  the  distractions  of  life  should  not  vex  him.  For 
he  was  ambitious  and  distracted.  His  purposes  had  met 
with  a  life-long  frustration ;  at  war  with  himself,  he  was 
in  conflict  with  the  universe.  He  used  means,  and  sought 
ends ;  but  the  means  employed  were  such  as  never  yet 


196  GETTING   ALONG. 

brought  about  the  results  which  he,  in  spite  of  every  sort 
of  denial,  anticipated.  If  those  results,  commanding 
position,  and  influence  permanent,  vast  and  glorious,  wor- 
thy the  aspiration  of  a  god,  should  be  his,  accident,  not 
himself,  would  confer  them.  A  man,  to  achieve  what  he 
sought  and  anticipated,  must  live  for  his  purpose — must 
seek  it  with  persistence,  turning  neither  to  the  right 
hand  nor  the  left ;  he  must  contract  his  greatness  into 
one  blazing  focus — concentrate  his  manifold  powers  into 
one  predominating  and  most  manifest  power ;  with  ener- 
gy he  must  direct  and  control  himself — self  must  never 
control  him.  Silsey  had  not  labored  so — he  was  too 
universal  a  man ;  you  found  him  everywhere.  He  had 
amassed  immense  stores  of  learning — his  resources  were 
vast;  and  to  his  own  advantage,  speaking  in  the  language 
of  men,  he  could  not  control  these  forces.  The  people 
do  not  make  their  presidents,  and  governors,  and  judges, 
of  such  material.  He  was  too  great  for  fame — too  large 
for  office — too  impractical  for  any  i:  success  " — the  world 
seemed  to  have  no  place  for  him,  and — he  wondered  at 
it.  This  was  the  most  surprising  thing  of  all.  That  he 
should  wonder — that  he  should  be  disappointed — that  he 
should  not  have  anticipated  the  result — that  he  should 
sometimes  look  at  Violet,  and  be  astonished  at  himself 
that  such  an  one  as  she  should  occupy  the  place  she  held 
in  his  home,  his  lodgings,  rather,  for  it  was  not  probable, 
he  said,  that  he  should  ever  have  a  home — and  that,  as 
lie  had  assured  her,  that  he  should  find  in  her,  in  her 
alone,  his  summer-light,  and  beauty,  and  refreshment ! 

But  it  was  not  a  mystery — it  was  the  proper  and  need- 
ful adjustment  of  circumstances  and  experiences  for  him. 
Without  that  pure  element  of  light  in  the  dwelling  with 
him,  what  gloom  had  been  there !  she  was  to  his  heart 
what  the  hymns  of  childhood  are  to  the  memory  of  man — 
tender  and  sweet  in  their  sanctity,  tearful,  but  not  bitterly 


SILSEY    AND    HIS    WIFE.  197 

so,  in  the  weight  of  their  recollection.  She  was  his 
summer-land — and,  as  well,  the  bird  that  sang  there,  the 
flower  that  blossomed  there — the  brook  that  shone  and 
danced  there. 

Into  the  struggles  which  engaged  him,  Violet  could 
not  enter,  she  could  not  go  to  him — but  he  could  come 
to  her.  It  made  the  blessedness  of  the  fortune  of  each, 
that  this  was  so  ...  that  she  could  not  enter  into  all 
his  disquiets — that  he  could  enter  into  her  rest.  - 

But  the  shadow  of  his  trouble  and  gloom  did  overcast 
her — and  sometimes  did  darken  her  heart  with  gloom. 
Half  the  world  would  have  told  her,  thoughtless  or 
thoughtful,  that  there  was  no  occasion  for  her  disquiet — 
that  Silsey  was  yet  in  his  prime,  and  never  stronger, 
never  more  vigorous — that  there  was  no  dread  of  poverty 
before  his  eyes — no  sinking  of  the  heart  when  he  looked 
upon  his  helpless  wife  and  child,  thinking  of  their  unpro- 
vided future :  the  other  half,  in  the  spirit  of  amiable 
assent,  would  have  joined  with  her,  abounding  in  the 
consolations  of  dolorous  acquiescence  and  commiseration, 
and  specified  the  ruin  of  the  man — tobacco ;  and  would 
have  set  her  on,  no  doubt,  an  exceedingly  small  tor- 
mentor, to  bark  and  snap  and  worry  the  good  man  out  of 
his  weakness,  or  out  of  his  life. 

But  it  was  the  fact  that  Silsey  was  no  longer  vigorous 
and  strong,  as  he  had  been  ;  iior  was  tobacco  the  insid- 
uous  foe  that  accomplished  his  defeat. 

Twenty-five  found  him  with  spent  forces  of  nature  and 
fortune,  at  liberty  to  look  about  and  within  himself,  as  he 
had  never  done  since  he  dashed  into  life,  and  well-nigh 
exhausted  it.  From  twenty-five  to  thirty,  he  lived  in  a 
desert ;  thence,  as  he  conceived,  and  in  some  respects 
truly,  he  came  forth  a  new  man.  and  entered  on  the  study 
of  the  law  .  .  .  For  a  few  years  he  continued  in  the 
practice  of  the  profession,  but  now,  as  we  have  seen,  had 


198  GETTING   ALONG. 

abandoned  it  ...  We   will   look   at   him   and   Violet 
again. 

It  is  now  Saturday  night,  and  Lucia  Tree  has  for  the 
last  half-hour  been  closeted  with  Violet  Silsey  .  .  . 
Violet's  week  of  anxiety  is  at  an  end  .  .  .  She  sits  in  the 
gathering  darkness  of  her  room — but  there  is  no  gloom 
there ;  no  noon-day  sunshine  ever  made  such  brightness 
as  Violet  sees  now.  She  sits  on  the  floor,  by  the  cradle 
side,  and  her  head  is  bent  down ;  through  the  darkness 
she  looks  on  the  baby's  face,  and  beholds  the  glory  around 
it — for  all  life  is  glorified  to  her  now  .  .  .  That  humble 
room,  with  its  cheap  ornaments,  is  as  full  of  life  and 
beauty  as  the  heart  of  Violet  can  bear  to  see ;  it  is  so  full, 
it  could  not  receive  more. 

She  thinks  she  will  go  to  Silsey.  But  she  does  not 
go  ...  If  she  should  sing,  perhaps  he  would  come  in  to 
her — and  sitting  beside  her  there,  the  secret  might  some- 
how come  out,  of  itself;  as  it  is,  she  knows  not  how  it 
will  be  told — or  how  it  can  be.  And  so  she  tries  to 
sing — no  !  there  is  no  such  thing  as  that.  The  joy  she 
feels  is  too  new — it  presses  upon  her  so — she  is  so  awed 
by  it,  so  abashed,  so  confounded,  that  her  voice  trembles 
even  when  she  thinks  of  lifting  it  in  song — so  she  com- 
passionates it,  and  lets  it  go.  At  one  moment  it  is  her 
impulse  to  run  and  throw  herself  into  his  arms,  and  tell 
him  the  marvellous  thing  that  has  happened — but  the  next 
she  is  so  pent  up  and  restrained,  she  has  no  power  to 
move. 

The  indecision  is  ended  at  length,  for  Silsey  enters  the 
room — he  does  not  see  the  light :  he  does  not  apprehend 
the  glory  that  is  there. 

"  How  dark  it  is,"  he  says. 

And  Violet  who  has  so  much  to  say,  says  nothing ;  but 
her  heart  cries  out,  "  Dark !  it  is  heavenly  bright  !" 

"  If  you  will  get  me  a  light,  Violet ;   I  'm  afraid  to 


THE    SECRET    COMING    OUT.  199 

move  for  fear  I  shall  upset  you  or  the  baby,  or  the 
room  ...  I  have  a  little  work  to  do  yet." 

Now  Violet  speaks.  Well  she  knows  what  that  means — 
"  a  little  work  !"  very  likely  some  writing,  or  reading,  or 
thinking,  that  will  keep  him  up  long  after  midnight — and 
to  night,  this  holy  Saturday  night,  it  shall  not  be. 

"  Come  and  sit  down  a  little  while,  Silsey,"  she  says ; 
it  is  hardly  entreaty — but  it  is  more  certainly  not 
command. 

"  Is  the  baby  sleeping  ?" 

"  Yes,  Silsey." 

"  Are  you  lonely,  Violet?" 

"  No — yes — it  don't  make  any  difference ;  come,  Silsey, 
sit  down." 

This  is  so  unusual — Violet  so  rarely  persists  in  any 
request  that  he  seems  disposed  to  disregard — that  Silsey 
is  surprised,  and,  yes,  he  is  pleased  also. 

"  Here  is  a  chair  by  the  cradle,"  she  says — rising,  ad- 
vancing, extending  her  hand  through  the  darkness  to 
him  ;  in  the  darkness  he  takes  it,  and  she  leads  him  ! 

"  Don't  work  any  more  to-night.  To-morrow  is  Sun- 
day, and  if  you  tire  yourself  so,  you  won't  enjoy  the  rest." 

"  Rest,"  repeated  Silsey,  "  a  man  at  my  time  of  life, 
with  a  family  to  support,  should  be  thinking  of  some- 
thing besides  rest/'  Though  he  spoke  lightly,  or  at- 
tempted to  do  so,  the  heaviness  of  a  sigh,  and  the  reality 
of  anxiety,  ran  through  the  words. 

"  If  I  were  wise,  Silsey,  like  Miss  Watson,  you  would 
not  be  saying  such  things,"  said  Violet,  taking  up  the 
words  quickly,  thinking  they  would  help  her  on  in  what 
she  had  to  tell.  "  You  would  think  then  you  had  a  help- 
mate in  me.  I  wish  you  had." 

"  Violet,  you  are  very  kind,  but  I  cannot  join  with 
you  in  the  wish.  Some  people  wish  for  things  they  have 
already.  Is  n't  that  foolish  ?  You  call  me  a  wise  man — 


200  GETTING    ALONG. 

why  do  you  not  act  as  if  you  believed  it  ?  I  say  I 
have  a  helpmate ;  now,  if  I  am  satisfied,  why  are  not 
you?" 

"  I  like  that,"  said  Violet,  quietly. 

"  And  I  mean  it,"  said  Silsey,  as  quietly. 

"But  did  you  ever  read  any  of  Miss  Watson's  books?" 
she  asks. 

"  Oh,  yes;  long  before  I  read  yours,  Violet." 

"  Mine  !"  Violet  laughs,  but  not  with  all  her  heart, 
for  her  heart,  as  yet,  is  burdened  with  her  secret,  and 
she  stops  short  in  the  laugh.  Would  not  this  be  a  good 
time  to  come  out  with  the  secret  ?  No — not  yet ! 

"And  did  youtlike  them,  Silsey?" 

"  There  is  a  good  deal  in  them.  Rough  prose  it  is. 
Your  book  is  poetry.  That  suits  me  better." 

This  speech  is  a  beautiful  riddle  to  Violet,  and  she 
waits,  and  hesitates,  as  though  she  liked  not  to  confess 
how  soon  she  had  guessed  it.  That  would  not  be  respect- 
ful. How  easy  it  would  be  now  to  tell  him  all ;  but 
Violet  thinks  it  anything  but  easy.  She  has  a  thousand 
nameless  fears  that  keep  her  from  speaking  her  secret  yet. 

"  But  do  you  like  Miss  Watson  the  worse,  Silsey,  be- 
cause she  wrote  books  ?" 

"  Why,  no,  Violet ;  I  can't  say  that  I  do." 

"  And  no  better,  either  ?" 

"  No — but  she  had  an  excuse." 

"  An  excuse,  did  you  say  ?  what  is  it  that  you  mean  ?" 

"  A  reason  for  doing  it,  and  an  apology.  She  had 
some  good  thoughts  to  say,  and  was  poor.  The  apology 
holds  good,  because,  when  she  had  told  her  thoughts  once, 
she  did  not  go  on  repeating  them  like  a  parrot,  but  wise- 
ly bound  herself  over  to  keep  the  silence.  She  is  a  wist; 
woman.  I  like  her,  and  her  books,  too.  She  is  a  good 
woman  besides,  and  I  like  her  for  that." 

"  I  wish  I  were  Miss  Watson." 


BEATING    THE    BUSH.  201 

"  Then  you  would  not  be  here.  I  would  have  no  Vio- 
let." 

"Where  would  I  be?" 

"  Up  stairs,  in  the  little  hall  room,  alone,  troubled  and 
sad." 

"  No.  I  should  be  here — but  this  place  would  be  so 
different !" 

"  Because  there  would  be  no  cradle  here,  and  no  old 
man  to  bother  you  ?" 

"No,  no,  Silsey — you  don't  understand.  I  should 
have  you,  and  the  baby,  and  the  fame,  and  wisdom,  alto- 
gether." 

"  I  should  like  you  to  tell  me,  Violet,  how  you  think 
that  you  and  Miss  Watson  could  live  in  one  body  togeth- 
er ?  I  married  one  woman,  and  she  is  quite  as  much  as 
I  can  manage;  what  should  I  do  with  another,  and  she 
so  different  ?  Fame,  Violet  ?  Was  it  your  voice  that 
said  that  ?" 

"  But  now,  Silsey,  what  if  I  should  actually  write  a 
book  ?"  Violet's  voice  betrays  a  little  anxiety. 

Silsey  laughs  to  hear  that,  as  he  has  not  laughed  in  her 
hearing 'in  many  a  long  day. 

"  I  should  expect  to  see  great,  horrible  eagle  wings 
growing  out  of  a  dove's  breast,"  said  he.  "  I  should 
fish  for  alligators  and  sharks  in  the  river  down  by  the 
Elms,  where  we  floated  the  paper-boats  the  other  day.  I 
should  expect  bees  to  make  honey  out  of  what  grows  in 
the  hearts  of  bad  men.  I  think  I  should  want  the  world 
to  come  to  an  end  at  once." 

"  Would  it  be  so  dreadful,  Silsey  ?»  asks  Violet,  half 
fearful  that  he  means  what  he  is  saying. 

"  It  would  be  dreadfully  unnatural." 

"  But  I  might  make  money  by  it." 

"  Oh,  Violet !"     The  rebuke  goes  to  her  heart — she 
hastens  on  ;  now  he  must  understand  her. 
9* 


202  GETTING   ALONG. 

"  But  what  if  I  wrote  something  once,  and  never 
thought  of  being  paid  for  it — wrote  because  I  could  not 
help  it — and  somebody  found  it  out — and  somebody  else 
wanted  the  thing,  to  do  good — would  you  be  angry,  and 
scold,  if  I  let  it  go,  and  was  paid,  you  know,  Silsey  ?" 

He  did  not  say.  And  therefore  she  continued  hastily, 
answering  his  silence,  as  she  thought,  "  It  is  not  too  late, 
Mr.  Silsey.  I  can  get  it  back ;  I  '11  return  the  money  by 
Lucia,  and  let  her  tell  the  man  you  don't  like  it.  But  I 
am  sure  I  meant  no  harm  ...  I  knew  you  liked  Miss 
Watson ;  and  you  knew  she  bought  her  place  in  the  coun- 
try with  the  money  she  made  by  her  books,  and  so  I 
thought — but  it  is  such  a  very  little  sum,  it  will  make  no 
difference.  But  still,  Silsey,  my  name  was  not  to  be  in, 
and  the  man — the  editor  I  mean — thought  that  was  a 
pity,  he  told  Lucia ;  but,  of  course,  it 's  not  my  name  so 
much  as  it  is  yours,  and  I  would  not  have  thought  of 
bothering  you  with  folks  talking  about  your  wife.  Lucia 
was  going  to  make  some  pictures  to  go  along  with  it;  but 
I  am  glad  I  let  you  know  first.  I  thought  I  would  keep 
my  secret,  but  I  could  not;  and  I  am  glad  of  it  ... 
If  you  '11  go  with  me,  I  will  take  back  the  money  to 
Lucia,  and  she  can  see  the  editor  in  the  morning,  and 
tell  him — and  so  it  will  be  all  right  again." 

Violet  had  risen ;  she  stood  waiting  for  Silsey's  words. 
What  said  he  to  her  ? 

"  Violet,  get  a  light." 

She  'started  to  obey  him  ;  what  was  he  going  to  do  ? 
She  could  guess  nothing  from  his  voice.  Perhaps  he 
wanted  to  see  well,  in  order  to  lecture  her ;  it  might  be 
he  was  going  to  his  study,  to  leave  her  in  doubt  till 
morning;  but,  most  likely,  his  next  direction  would  be, 
that  she  should  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  follow  him,  while 
he  led  the  way  to  the  house  where  Lucia  lived. 

But  for  anything  she  was  prepared,  only  he  must  not 


SPEAKING    TO    THE    PURPOSE.  203 

be  angry  with  her.  It  was  a  high-handed  thing  that  she 
had  done,  but  she  was  ready  to  repent  and  make  amends ; 
and  she  knew  that  there  was  time  for  the  amends  to  be 
made.  Lucia  had  the  poem  in  her  hands,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  preparing  the  sketches ;  there  would  be  no  diffi- 
culty about  it,  if  Silsey  would  only  make  haste,  and 
speak  out  his  thinking. 

"  Violet,"  he  said,  when  the  lamp  was  lighted  and  she 
stood  by  the  table,  hesitating  what  she  should  do  next, 
until  she  saw  how  the  light  fell  upon  the  baby's  face,  and 
made  haste  to  bring  her  veil  to  screen  it,  "  Violet,  sit 
down  again,  and  we  will  talk  about  this  thing." 

With  a  grave  face  Violet  obeyed  him,  but  she  sat  not 
now  by  the  cradle-side  upon  the  floor,  she  took  a  chair, 
and  she  rather  straightened  up  herself.  And  Silsey  ob- 
served it  all,  and  he  tested  this  spirit ;  but  not  that  he  had 
any  need  to  do  so — on  her  own  behalf,  not  his.  He  de- 
sired that  she  should  know  herself,  that  she  should  ex- 
plain herself  to  him  for  her  own  soul's  sake,  that  she 
might  understand  her  motives,  and  her  hopes,  the  better, 
by  the  vindication  which  she  gave  them,  thinking  that  he 
understood  not.  And  then  he  said  : 

"  Miss  Watson's  work  cost  her  much  toil  and  pain — 
yours  nothing  but  delight,  if  I  can  perceive  it.  Yours 
is  better  labor  then — not  better  for  you,  though,  thai» 
hers  for  her.  You  could  do  nothing  by  drudgery.  If  a 
bird  has  flown  in  at  my  window  and  cares  to  sing,  shall  I 
hinder  it  ?  You  may  sing,  Violet ;  but  you  shall  not 
work.  I  have  no  fear  of  your  getting  rich  and  proud — 
poets  are  not  apt  to  do  that,  and  it  is  very  well  for  them  ; 
though  some  of  them  repeat  the  blunder  of  Esau.  You 
have  not  surprised  me.  I  knew  you  were  a  poet  long  be- 
fore ;"  he  paused  a  moment,  and  then,  in  the  deep  silence, 
repeated  a  song  that  had  often  hushed  Viola  into  slum- 
ber. And  what  a  sound  it  had  from  his  lips !  "  Oh, 


204  GETTING    ALONG. 

Silsey,  how  did  you  know?"  exclaimed  Violet,  before  he 
had  half  finished  the  recitation. 

"  I  knew,"  said  he  ;  "  it  would  be  strange  if.  at  this  day, 
I  could  say  that  I  did  not.  I  knew,  because  I  understand 
you,  Violet,  just  as  you  do  me." 

/  She  thought  his  hand  outstretched  towards  her — she 
thought  his  eyes  said  "  come !"  If  she  saw  and  read 
amiss,  at  least  the  arms  opened  as  she  hastened  towards 
them ;  if  his  eyes  had  no  glances  they,  at  least,  had  tears  ; 
she  felt  them  :  they  ran  down  upon  her  face,  they  mingl- 
ed with  hers ;  and  she  said,  as  the  last  lingering  shadow 
of  a  fear  crept  away  from  her  heart,  where  it  should  find 
no  room  more  forever,  "  I  would  not  be  a  wise  woman 
for  the  world.  I  am  so  happy." 

And  Silsey  says,  in  his  heart,  "  If  Solomon  were  here 
I  woult  'nterrogate  him  if  such  wisdom  as  this  is  foolish- 
ness." 

But  -tb  his  voice  he  says :  "  Violet,  wisdom  is  not 
merely  in  much  learning — it  is  in  knowledge.  Be  satis- 
fied in  knowing  the  precious  things  you  know." 

And  so  Violet  and  Silsey  kept  their  Saturday  night ; 
and  the  dark  study  did  not  for  a  moment  draw  the  young 
wife's  lover  from  her  side.  — 


XXXV. 

WHEN  Stella  Gammon  returned  from  her  walk  with 
the  nun,  she  found  Lucia  Tree  walking  about  her  room 
restlessly,  impatiently  awaiting  her  return,  for  she  had 
merely  dropped  in  at  our  John's  street  house  to  look  at 
Stella  for  a  moment,  and  would  have  gone  instantly  away 
again  when  she  learned  that  her  friend  was  out,  but  for 
the  curiosity  excited  by  the  piles  of  books,  and  the  gen- 
eral indications  that  diligent  mental  work  was  going  on 


THE    FINEST    THING    IN    THE    WORLD.  205 

there.  The  changed  room  needed  an  explanation  ;  and, 
though  the  afternoon  was  waning,  still  she  lingered,  mo- 
mently expecting  the  return  of  her  who  could  best  give  it. 

Stella  advances  far  into  the  room  before  she  observes 
that  the  place  has  already  an  inmate  ;  and  Lucia  has  seen 
the  anxious  and  worn  look  of  the  face,  that  to  her  eyes 
is  the  handsomest  under  the  sun. 

She  does  not  wait  to  be  perceived,  but  goes  up  to  Stella, 
with  both  hands  extended — it  may  have  been  Stella's  sur- 
prise that  conduced  to  the  warmth  of  her  reception.  She 
certainly  received  her  guest  with  open  arms,  and  said, 
not  in  her  usual  manner,  but  rapidly  in  a  breath  : 

•'  You  are  the  very  one  of  all  others.  Sit  down.  Will 
told  me  not  long  ago  what  famous  things  you  were  doing 
— and  by  the  way,  I  think  Will  is  making  a  splendid  fel- 
low of  himself.  See,  this  is  what  I  wanted  of  you. 
What  is  your  price  ?  I  want  a  portrait  from  this  draw- 
ing. I  wonder  if  your  prices  are  ruinous  ?" 

Lucia  frankly  told  them.  She,  beyond  question,  was 
working  for  money.  But  she  adds,  "  I  never  painted  a 
portrait.  I  cannot  do  it.  Never  but  one." 

"  We  will  see  about  that  some  other  time ;"  replied 
Stella,  "  this  is  only  a  copy  you  are  to  paint.  I  shall  be 
up  every  day  to  see  what  you  are  doing,  and  describe  the 
complexion,  and  hair,  and  eyes,  and  the  expression  of  the* 
face,  and  some  other  things.  It  is  so  grand  a  face  you 
will  do  it  the  more  readily." 

"  But,  Stella—" 

"  Not  a  word — you  are  to  do  it  .  .  .  And  now  tell  me, 
is  all  Will  says  of  you  true  ?  are  you  doing  such  great 
things?  are  you  very  ambitious  and  proud,  too  ?  Whose 
mantle  has  fallen  on  you  ?  Is  it  not  fine  ?  is  it  not  the 
finest  thing  in  the  world,  Lucia,  tell  me,  to  have  something 
to  do,  something  to  think  of  when  you  get  up,  and  when 
you  go  to  bed  ?  To  be  living  for  something  ?" 


206  GETTING   ALONG. 

"  It  is  indeed ;  but  one  would  think  I  were  doing  some 
great  labor  to  hear  me,"  said  Lucia,  checking  herself  in 
the  serious  strain  of  the  opening  words.  "  It  is  only  the 
very  small  things  I  can  do,  Stella." 

"  Great  or  small,  it  makes  no  difference — it's  the  some- 
thing to  be  done.  Sight  to  see  it,  will  to  do  it;  that 's 
all.  Who  would  have  looked  for  a  hero  in  this  wild  little 
friend  of  mine,  who  seemed  to  have  nothing  more  to  do 
on  earth  when  she  had  grown  up  and  could  romp  no 
longer  ?  I  shall  believe,  with  Will,  that  you  are  the  most 
remarkable  woman  of  your  time.  You  never  go  gadding 
about,  sight-searching,  now-a-days,  I  take  it ;  you  work 
from  morning  until  night." 

"  Oh  no,  I  don't — but  I  must  be  gone,"  said  Lucia, 
starting  up.  "  I  have  a  long  way  to  go  yet.  I  told  you 
that  I  never  came  here,  but  I  wished  myself  a  thousand 
miles  off?  dear  me,  I  am  wishing  that  same  thing  now. 
This  room  will  haunt  me ;  it  is  not  nearly  as  pleasant  as 
it  was,  Stella,  with  all  these  books ;  what  have  you  been 
doing  to  your  room  ?  all  these  books,  what  do  they 
mean  ?" 

"  I  have  been — reading  a  little." 

"  A  little  !  is  it  that  makes  you  so  pale  ?  What  are 
you  doing  all  the  time  ?  How  long  it  is  since  I  saw 
you  ?  You  have  not  yet  been  down  to  our  little  home. 
Of  course,  I  do  not  expect  that  you  ever  will  come  there — 
nobody  does  ...  no,  you  need  not  look  at  me  in  that 
way.  Not  a  soul  comes  near  us.  Of  course  I  do  not 
expect  you — but  yet  we  are  not  so  miserably  off  as  you 
might  think,  Stella  ...  So  you  are  going  to  be  a  learned 
woman  like  Miss  Watson  ?  do  let  mo  get  out  while  I 
have  the  courage.  Good-bye." 

"  Stay,"  said  Stella,  laying  her  hand  on  the  arm  of  the 
laughing  girl.  "  You  know  you  have  been  talking  non- 
sence.  Where  is  Miss  Watson  ?" 


WHAT    IS    IT    TO    BE    HAPPY.  207 

"  At  her  old  lodgings.  You  might  do  worse  than  be 
like  her.  How  I  hated  that  woman  !  but  I  never  hated 
you,  recollect.  I  was  only  afraid.  She  has  done  the 
oddest  thing !" 

"  What  is  it  she  has  done  ?" 

"  Made  Violet  Silsey  fall  in  love  with  her  !" 

"  Is  that  so  odd  ?     What  is  Violet  doing  now  ?" 

"  Growing  beautiful  and  happy,  and  printing  the  sweet- 
est poetry  you  ever  read.  And  that 's  what  you  will  be 
doing,  I  suppose."  Lucia's  face  brightened,  as  though 
she  had  made  a  true  prophecy ;  she  turned  from  Stella 
and  looked  at  the  laden  table.  "  Did  I  not  always  tell 
you?" 

"  What,  pray  ?" 

"  That  you  were  remarkable." 

"  And  do  you  really  not  know,  Lucia,  the  remarkable 
people  are  always  drones  in  the  hive  ?  What  has  be- 
come of  little  Mr.  Vane  ?" 

"  He  is  at  work,"  said  Lucia.     "  Where  is  Layard  ?" 

"  At  the  college." 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  Violet  Silsey — she  is  the  hap- 
piest woman  in  the  world." 

"  Then  I  should  not  see  her,  Lucia." 

"  Would  you  not  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  would — but  I  should  not  ...  It  takes 
very  little  to  make  some  people  happy,  Lucia." 

"  Ay — if  they  can  only  get  at  it." 

"  We  ought,  however,  to  be  independent  of  circum- 
stances." 

"  So  we  ought  .  .  .  if  we  could !  But  I  really  must 
go." 

"  Stay  one  moment,  why  does  your  Violet  love  Miss 
Watson  ?" 

"  I  can  but  guess,  my  hearty." 

"  Guess  aloud  then,  LucW 


208  GETTING   ALONG. 

"  Because  Mr.  Silsey  likes  her  so  well." 

"  But,  Lucia,  it  strikes  me  that  is  rather  a  singular 
reason,"  said  Stella. 

"  To  be  sure  it  is — and  such  a  triumph  as  it  was  when 
I  told  Will !  It  is  because  they  are  married,  and  just 
because  they  are  !  Do  you  see  ?  Say  you  do,  or  I  shall 
put  you  down  with  those  filthy  boarding-house  people 
who  would  rather  die  than  own  they  understood  it. 
What  have  I  said  !  Good-bye  now,  in  earnest.'' 


XXXVI. 

LUCIA  TREE  had  gone  into  Stella's  room  with  some 
thoughts  that  weighed  heavily  upon  her,  to  ask  counsel  of 
her  friend.  But  she  could  find  no  utterance  for  them. 
Stella's  mind,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts,  betrayed  its  pre- 
occupation, and  so  taking  the  sketch  from  which  the  por- 
trait was  to  be  made,  with  her,  Lucia  went  down  the 
street  till  she  came  to  the  house  in  which  her  sister  was 
now  living.  Often  she  had  passed  by  it  since  Rose  went 
down  into  that  crowded,  dusty,  uncomfortable  place ;  but 
never  until  now  with  the  determination  of  entering  in, 
and  discovering  how  life  went  on  there. 

She  was  going  on  a  joyless  mission  to  a  ruined  house- 
hold ;  solitary,  and  doubtful  of  the  reception  that  awaited 
her.  She  had  not  spoken  to  any  one  at  home  of  her 
purpose.  She  knew  the  opposition  she  would  meet ;  and 
in  her  heart  she  was  resolved  on  accomplishing  the  pur- 
pose for  which  she  was  now  here. 

Without  difficulty  she  found  the  room  in  which  Rose 
and  her  husband  lodged. 

Rose  was  alone  in  the  cheerless  apartment ;  four  bare 
walls,  defiled  with  filth,  enclosed  her — an  uncovered  and 
begrimed  floor  was  undenHath  her — a  broken  ceiling 


THE    SISTERS.  209 

above.  The  furniture  in  the  room  was  much  too  scant 
for  comfort,  the  bed  was  a  loathsome  heap. 

They  had  taken  the  room  furnished,  evidently,  and 
here  this  wretched  man  and  wife  were  dragging  out  their 
miserable  days  in  drunkenness  and  wrath. 

When  Lucia  went  into  the  room,  having  inquired  her 
way  up  into  the  third-story  of  the  house,  she  found  Rose 
on  her  knees  before  the  fire,  kindling  a  few  bits  of  wood — 
a  battered  tea-kettle  stood  on  the  hearth,  ready  filled  with 
water,  waiting  till  the  fire  should  be  made.  On  the  table 
before  one  of  the  windows  was  the  food  for  the  approach- 
ing supper. 

Her  eyes  half  blinded  with  smoke,  Rose  did  not  at 
first  recognize  the  figure  that  came  in  so  quietly,  and 
glided  rapidly  towards  her ;  but  the  voice,  the  single  ex- 
clamation bursting  from  Lucia's  lip,  announced  her,  and 
struggling  to  her  knees,  the  wretched  woman  ran  back  to 
the  door,  which  Lucia  had  closed  behind  her,  threw  it 
open  again,  and  said  in  a  low,  angry  tone : 

"  Go  out  .  .  .  your  are  not  wanted," 

"  But,  Rose — I  came  from  home." 

"Home!  .  .  that's  the  reason,"  answered  Rose,  with 
an  elevated  voice.  "  Go." 

But  Lucia,  instead,  advanced  still  farther  into  the 
room,  and  took  her  stand  resolutely  by  the  table. 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  about  little  Rose,"  said  she. 

"  You  mean  you  came  to  spy  out  the  nakedness  of  the 
land  !  but  I  won't  have  you  here.  Go  !  go,  I  say." 

"  No,  Rose,  I  am  not  going.  I  shall  stay  till  I  have 
told  you,"  and  Lucia  thereupon  sat  down. 

"  Told  me  what,  then  ?  be  quick  about  it,  Mortimer 
will  be  home — and  a  fine  time  you  '11  have  raising  the 
neighbors.  You  had  best  be  quick  about  it  ...  I  only 
warn  you."  And  Rose  shut  the  door.  "  What  about  the 
baby?"  she  asked,  speaking  more  mildly,  going  up  to  Lucia. 


210  GETTING   ALONG. 

"  Rose  is  growing  beautiful,  dear  sister.  She  looks  like 
you." 

"  That  is  likely,"  said  the  mother,  her  eyes  involunta- 
rily moving  toward  the  little  glass  that  hung  above  the 
table,  but  turning  away  again  quickly  from  the  haggard 
presentation  of  herself  she  saw  therein. 

"  She  does,  indeed,  Rose ;  mother  says  so.  And  Will 
is  so  fond  of  her  !  You  would  be  surprised  to  see  what 
a  grand  nurse  he  makes.  And  father  and  mother  are 
pretty  well.  And  you  can  see  that  I  am  .  .  .  And  now, 
how  are  you,  Rose  ?  Tell  me,  so  that  I  can  let  them 
know." 

':  I  am  well  enough,  thank  you,  as  you  can  see — as  you 
say.  Now,  if  you  have  said  all,  you  had  better  go." 

Lucia  rose  from  her  chair  as  if  responding  to  the  sug- 
gestion. But  Rose  had  many  things  to  say,  of  which  the 
moment  before  she  had  not  thought. 

"  Does  the  baby  talk  any  yet  ?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

"  Oh,  yes !  she  can  call  grandpapa  as  plainly  as  I  can. 
And  father  thinks  so  much  of  her  !  and  we  all  do.  We 
are  keeping  her  for  you,  Rose.  When  you  get  a  house, 
Rose,  and  are  a  little  better  off,  Will  says — " 

"  Oh,  he  wants  to  be  rid  of  her !" 

"  Will !  why,  Rose,  how  can  you  say  it?  if  you  knew 
how  hard  he  was  working." 

"  Of  course,  all  for  my  child,  too !" 

"  No,  I  do  not  mean  that,"  began  Lucia,  hastily,  but  a 
glance  at  the  wretched  face  before  her  checked  her  indig- 
nation— there  was  only  room  for  pity  in  this  place  ;  "  dear 
little  Rose  is  the  only  pet  he  has — his  only  amusement; 
when  he  is  home  from  the  office,  she  is  always  on  his  knee, 
or  frisking  about  him.  I  don't  know  how  he  or  any  of 
us  would  get  along  without  her;  but  then  she  is  yours, 
you  know — and  of  course  as  soon  as  you  are  better 
off—" 


MUTUAL   WRONG.  211 

"  Lucia  Tree,  do  you  know  what  you  are  talking 
about  ?» 

"  Of  course  1  do;"  for  the  first  time  since  the  inter- 
view the  sisters  stood  side  by  side. 

"  Look  about  you — look  at  me !  You  know  as  well  as 
I  that  we  shall  never  be  one  bit  better  off.  It  is  an  insult 
to  say  anything  about  it.  I  consider  it  so." 

"  Oh,  Rose,  why  do  you  say  that  ?  You  are  young  yet 
— just  think  how  young !  Why,  even  father  seems  to  be 
growing  younger  and  younger  every  day." 

"  He  does  ?"  said  Rose,  shortly,  and,  as  she  would 
have  had  it  appear,  without  much  interest  in  the  informa- 
tion. 

"  Yes — and  he  really  seems  to  enjoy  work  better  than 
ever." 

It  was  hard  to  offer  resistance  to  the  kind  voice  and 
looks  of  Lucia  Tree.  A  nature  like  hers,  joyous  and  pure, 
demands,  in  its  contact  with  others,  the  best  that  they  can 
give.  In  spite  of  her  ungracious  words  and  mood,  Rose 
seemed  to  have  some  sense  of  this. 

"  But  father  was  getting  old,"  Rose  said,  with  a  gentle 
voice.  "  He  was  very  gray— and  since — he  must  be 
grayer." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  do  not  think  so  !  I  tell  him  there  is  one 
wrinkle  less  in  his  face  every  day  of  his  life.  I  expect  to 
see  him  a  young  man  again." 

"  Your  father  is  a  different  man  from  mine,  then,"  said 
Rose,  bitterly,  after  a  momentary  silence. 

"  No,  no !  indeed !  he  is  the  same  to  both — our  own 
dear  father,  Rose."  Lucia's  arm  had  somehow  found  its 
way  around  her  sister's  slender  waist.  Rose  instinctively 
recoiled  from  the  embrace,  yet  she  submitted  to  it. 

"  Then  it  is  you  who  have  made  him  different,"  said 
she,  surveying  her  young  sister  in  serious  meditation. 
"  It  was  not  mother.  It  is  her  fault  that  he  and  the  rest 


212  GETTING    ALONG. 

of  us,  I  meau  I,  were  no  better.  She  never  looked  after 
me.  I  did  as  I  would — I  went  away  from  home;  I  ran 
away  because  it  was  no  home." 

"  Oh,  Rose — that 's — that 's  dastardly  !"  yet  there  was 
only  sorrow  in  the  voice  that  pronounced  that  word  of 
judgment. 

"  But  it  is  true,"  persisted  Rose.  "  I  know — I  know 
what  you  are,  and  Will ;  but  I  know  what  I  am,  and 
what  she  is,  though  there  's  no  use  of  our  talking  of  it — 
that  is  true  enough." 

"  I  brought  you  a  present,  Rose,"  said  Lucia,  now  speak- 
ing quickly,  and  in  some  excitement — making  the  best  of  a 
uot  very  good  opportunity,  for  she  fancied  that  she  had 
seen  in  the  last  two  or  three  minutes  symptoms  of  relent- 
ing in  Rose — the  poor  face  was  less  rigidly  set  against 
her — its  muscles  were  relaxed — the  eyes  looked  not 
fierce,  nor  angry,  nor  sullen ;  it  was  difficult,  however, 
for  Lucia  to  interpret  their  expression  quite  to  her  sat- 
isfaction. 

As  she  spoke,  she  extended  her  hand : 

"  Some  day,  Rose,  I  am  going  to  bring  down  some  of 
my  work  to  show  you — I  think  you  would  like  it.  I  ain 
making  money  by  it — did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ?" 

And  Lucia  burst  into  a  laugh,  which,  however,  was  not 
an  infectious,  communicable  laugh,  nor  was  it  the  most 
merry  and  uncontrollable  you  ever  heard. 

"  I  want  no  presents,"  said  Rose,  putting  back  Lucia's 
hand,  without  so  much  as  glancing  towards  the  proffered 
gift. 

"  But  I  am  getting  very  rich,  I  do  assure  you,  Rose. 
And  I  earned  it  myself,  and  you  can  have  it  better  th:m 
not  ...  do ! — you  make  me  very  unhappy,  Rose." 

Lucia  spoke  in  a  suppressed,  pleading  voice.  She 
would  not  be  put  back — but  the  elder  sister  still  resisted 
her. 


THE    GIFT    REJECTED.  213 

"  You  are  not  offended,  Rose  ?  .  .  .  I  did  not  mean  to 
vex  you.  I  thought,  being  my  sister,  we  must  be  alike. 
And  I  know  how  glad  I  was,  not  long  ago,  when  a  friend 
helped  me  to  some  work — and  now  that  I  can  help  father 
...  I  am  sure,  Rose,  being  sisters,  I  thought  we  must 
be  alike — and  you  would  not  be  prouder  than  I  was,  but 
just  glad,  you  know." 

"  I  never  was  like  you,"  said  Rose,  shortly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  think  you  were,  only  better  looking ;  and 
you  know  more.  Do  you  really  want  me  to  go,  Rose  ?  I 
am  afraid  that  you  have  been  sick.  Oh,  do  let  me  help 
you.  Can't  I  do  something  now  while  I  am  here,  or  up 
home  for  you  ?  .  .  .  Do,  dear  Rose,  say  something,  and 
let  us  be  friends.  I  am  sure  we  ought  to  be.  I  am  sure 
I  love  you,  Rose." 

"  You  ?"     Rose  looked  at  Lucia,  unbelieving. 

"  I — ?  why,  yes.  I  am  sure  I  do.  And  I  think  that 
you  and  I  can  do  a  great  deal  for  each  other,  if  you  will 
only  talk.  But  do  not  stand  off,  so  far  away.  Come, 
Rose,  let  me  get  up  close  to  you,  and  talk." 

"  Talk,  then,"  said  Rose ;  but  she  seemed  as  distant 
as  ever. 

"  And  you  will  not  be  offended1?" 

"  Where  is  the  use  1     There  is  no  getting  rid  of  you." 

"  That  sounds  like  Will,"  said  Lucia,  taking  up  the 
ungracious  words  pleasantly.  £He  says  I  have  a  burr- 
sticking  faculty,"  she  added._  But  Lucy  used  not  Will's 
words  in- quite  the  connection  he  had  used  them. 

"  You  want  to  know  how  we  are  getting  on,"  said  Rose; 
for,  having  gone  thus  far,  Lucia  had  for  a  moment  hesi- 
tated, uncertain  how  far,  and  in  what  direction,  she  might 
venture.  "  You  might  see — there  is  no  need  of  asking. 
It 's  well  enough,  though.  Mortimer  has  found  something 
to  do.  I  cannot  tell  what.  We  have  all  we  want ;  so,  I  don't 
mean  to  be  hateful,  but  you  can  keep  what  you  brought." 


214  GETTING   ALONG. 

Lucia  was  silent.  Rose,  after  a  momentary  hesitation, 
went  on  rather  more  graciously  : 

"  If  you  have  no  need  for  it,  let  Will  use  it  for  the  baby." 

"  But  we  do  not  need  it,  Rose — indeed  we  do  not." 

"Nor  I,  Lucy." 

"  Ah,  but  you  are  proud  now." 

"  This  looks  like  it,  truly,"  said  Rose,  glancing  around 
the  room. 

"  Yes,  it  does.  Standing  out  so  against  me,  the  only 
sister  you  have,  Rose,  in  the  wide  world." 

"  It  would  be  better  if  I  had  no  relatives,"  said  Rose 
bitterly. 

"  Oh,  Rose,  how  can  you  say  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  mean  for  myself.  It  makes  no  difference  to 
me — nothing  does."  She  looked  for  a  moment  as  if  lost 
in  her  hopelessness.  "  But  for  you  to  have  such  a  rela- 
tion." 

"  Come  home  with  me,"  cried  Lucia  in  her  heart,  but 
she  dared  not  speak  the  words  aloud. 

"  It  seems  so  strange  to  hear  you,  Rose,"  she  said, 
more  kindly  than  reproachfully,  though  reproach  was  in 
the  voice. 

"  It  must  be  pleasant !"  exclaimed  Rose.  "  You  would 
like  all  your  friends  to  look  in  here,  I  suppose,  and  see 
us  as  we  are  !" 

"  Outside  our  house  I  have  but  two  friends  in  the 
world.  Yes — I  should  be  willing  to  have  them  come  in, 
if  they  could  help  us  any." 

"  Do  not  use  that  word  again,"  said  Rose  hastily. 

"  Why  ?  It  is  a  pleasant  word  to  me.  What  are 
friends  good  for,  if  not  for  help  ?" 

"  I  am  looking  for  Mortimer  every  moment.  I  think 
you  had  better  go,  Lucia,  unless  you  want  to  meet  him." 
Rose  turned  from  Lucia  to  the  hearth,  and  partly  extin- 
guished the  fire,  which  was  now  blazing  fiercely. 


IN    THE    ATTIC.  215 

Lucia  hesitated. 

"  Come  again ;  but  you  had  better  go  now.  I  forgot 
how  late  it  was,"  said  Rose  anxiously. 

"  If  you  want  me  to  go,  Rose — " 

"  Yes,  yes — you  had  better." 

"  I  shall  come  again." 

"  Come,  then,  and  tell  me  about  the  baby." 

"  And,  Rose,  you  will  try  and  feel  happier — will  you, 
for  my  sake  ?  I  know  things  will  go  easier."  As  she 
spoke,  she  kissed  Rose  once  and  again. 

Rose  did  not  refuse,  but  neither  did  she  return  the 
fond  salutation ;  and  Lucia  went  away  with  the  rejected 
gift,  which  was  a  small  bank-note,  not  by  any  means 
with  the  feeling  of  one  who  had  been  vanquished  in  an 
enterprise. 

XXXVII. 

THERE  were  two  great  thoughts  in  Stella  Gammon's 
mind  when  the  laughing  Lucia  left  her.  She  kept  them 
there  all  night,  and  in  the  morning  went  up  to  see  Miss 
Watson  in  her  lodgings. 

"  Let  me  go  into  her  room,"  said  she  to  the  maid  who 
waited  on  the  door;  and,  without  more  ceremony,  she 
followed  the  girl  up  the  stairs  to  the  tiny  hall  room  in 
the  attic. 

"  Tell  her  I  am  in  waiting  here,"  she  said,  loud  enough 
to  be  heard  by  the  inmate  of  the  room,  when  the  maid, 
so  bidden,  opened  the  door. 

Miss  Watson  heard  the  voice. 

"  Stella,  come  in,"  she  said  immediately.  And  so 
Stella  went  in. 

The  lady  was  busily  occupied  with  her  writing.  She 
looked  up  as  Stella  entered,  motioned  her  to  sit  down  in 
the  chair  from  which  she  arose,  betaking  herself  to  the 


216  GETTING    ALONG. 

bedside  for  a  seat ;  and  for  ten  succeeding  minutes  she 
went  on  with  her  occupation,  as  if  the  intrusion  had  not 
occurred. 

Stella's  eyes,  meanwhile,  glanced  round  the  room,  and 
met  but  a  barren  prospect :  uncovered  walls,  not  quite  as 
white  as  snow,  a  common  dressing-table,  one  of  the  com- 
monest, to  be  minute,  the  chair  referred  to,  a  small 
stand  and  chest  of  drawers,  the  bedstead  and  a  trunk. 
Not  a  flower,  not  a  picture,  not  an  ornament  of  any  de- 
scription. Was  not  this  a  nature  that  could  appreciate 
the  refinements  and  graces  of  life  ?  Did  her  thoughts 
soar  too  high  for  their  observation  ?  Her  garden  at  the 
Elms  seemed  to  speak  better  things  of  her,  and  her  own 
appearance  and  manner  said  better  things  of  her.  It  was 
evident  that  she  could  deny  herself — that  to  her  inward 
sense  the  serene  joys  of  art  were  evermore  revealed — 
were  her  refreshment  and  delight. 

When  she  had  finished  her  letter,  she  folded  and  sealed 
it ;  and,  putting  it  aside,  turned  graciously  towards  Stella, 
who,  aware  of  the  presence  into  which  she  had  come,  and 
calmed  and  soothed  by  that  presence,  had  ample  time  to 
survey  again  the  intent  with  which  she  had  come  hither, 
and,  also,  to  retreat  from  the  position  she  had  not  yet  be- 
trayed, if  such  should  be  her  pleasure. 

When  Miss  Watson,  turning  toward  her,  said: 

"How  art  thou?"  She  answered  with  the  same  sig- 
nificance of  tone : 

"  I  came  that  thou  should'st  tell  me." 

"  Thou  look'st  not  well." 

"  I  am  not.' 

"  What  ails  thee  ?     What  hast  thou  done  to  thyself?" 

"  I  have  been  on  a  search." 

"  For  what  ?" 

"  Wisdom." 

"  And  hast  come  back  from  a  fruitless  voyage  ?" 


AFLOAT    AGAIN.  217 

"I  have  been  trying  to  study,"  said  Stella,  suddenly 
dropping  the  figure,  and  coming  out  with  the  fact. 

"  Very  well — I  am  glad  of  it." 

"  But  just  as  I  was  in  the  midst  of  it — " 

"Midst  of  what  ?" 

"  Study — I  am  broken  up,  and  all  afloat  again." 

"  Alas,  poor  child !"  sighed  Miss  Watson,  leaning 
back  in  her  chair ;  and,  lifting  her  eye-glass  for  a  mo- 
ment, she  bent  a  look  upon  her  guest. 

''  I  am  going  now  to  do  one  of  two  things,"  said  Stella 
quickly,  not  quite  liking  nor  understanding  the  pitying 
word  and  look  of  her  listener. 

But,  having  said  this,  she  paused.  Miss  Watson  was 
silent,  but  attentive.  Her  silence  embarrassed  Stella ; 
still  she  knew,  that  if  she  would  profit  by  the  wisdom  of 
her  friend,  she  herself  must  be  open  as  day.  This  was 
the  one  thing  required  of  whosoever  would  share  the 
riches  of  Miss  Watson. 

"  I  am  either  going  to  write  a  book,  or  I  shall  down 
to  teach  a  school  among  the  heathen  of  this  city.  Which 
shall  I  do  ?  if  you  can  and  will,  tell  me.  I  know  you 
can,  but,  perhaps,  you  are  impatient  that  I  should  have 
interrupted  you  to-day." 

With  a  slight  wave  of  her  hand,  Miss  Watson  dis- 
pensed with  a  score  of  words  with  which  she  might  have 
re-assured  the  inquirer,  and  said : 

"  For  which  enterprise  do  you  feel  yourself  best  quali- 
fied ?  Do  you  know  anything  about  school-teaching — 
what  the  business  is  when  one  comes  to  do  it  ?" 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Stella. 

Miss  Watson  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  signifi- 
cance. "  Pardon  me — I  hardly  think  you  do.  /I  have 
had  a  little  experience  that  way,  under  the  most  favora- 
ble circumstances.  It  does  not  incline  me  to  believe 
that,  under  the  worst  auspices,  you  would — "  Stella 

VOL.  II.  10 


218  GETTING   ALONG. 

looked  so  grave,  and  listened  in  so  much  anxiety,  that 
Miss  Watson  broke  suddenly  off  in  the  midst  of  her  dis- 
couraging words,  and  said  in  a  livelier  tone  : 

"  Tell  me  now,  honestly,  what  you  mean — what  is  your 
motive  ?" 

"  To  be  of  use  in  the  world,"  said  Stella,  in  a  broken 
undertone,  but  her  look  was  lofty  and.  determined. 

"  What  were  you  going  to  write  a  book  about?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Then  whatever  else  you  do,  attempt  not  that,  I  be- 
seech you ;  if  there  is  not  something  in  you  that  will  be 
said,  in  spite  of  you,  be  dumb." 

"  But  I  tell  you,  Miss  Watson,  I  must  and  will  have 
something  to  do.  I  have,  since  I  saw  you,  been  en- 
deavoring to  busy  myself  in  books.  I  cannot  do  it :  say 
because  I  am  so  full  ofi_woman's  nervous  impatience  and 
disquiet,}  say  what  you  will.  I  cannot,  live  a  student. 
For  my  brain's  sake,  and  my  soul's  sake,  I  must  have 
active  employment  among  human  beings.  I  am  not 
learned,  I  do  not  expect  ever  to  be,  I  do  not  care  to  be — 
murder  will  out !  I  am  standing  here  all  the  day  idle." 

"  You  cannot  bear  the  confinement  of  study,  I  see  you 
cannot ;  you  have  been  making  an  exhausting  experi- 
ment," said  Miss  Watson,  soothingly.  "But  I  know, 
moreover,  that  you  could  not  live  in  the  place  of  which 
you  are  speaking.  The  air  is  poison,  and  the  work,  it 
seems  to  me,  not  yours.  This  new — fancy  I  will  not  call 
it — this  project,  I  believe,  has  only  appeared  to  you  a 
feasible  one,  because,  in  your  present  state  of  mind,  some- 
thing has  attracted  your  attention  towards  it.  You  are 
not  so  patient  as  a  teacher  amongst  those  people  would 
need  to  be.  Such  a  work  would  require  a  different  kind 
of  fortitude  from  yours." 

<:  I  believe  I  am  fit  for  nothing,  then,  but  to  be  miser- 
able," said  Stella,  sorrowfully.  "  But  I  know  I  am  not 


NOT  UNTO  DEATH!  219 

alone  in  my  desire — though  it  seems  to  me  I  am  in  every- 
thing else.  Everywhere  people  are  at  work,  doing  good 
and  great  things.  I  know  a  gay  young  girl,  full  of  fun 
and  frolic,  who  made  a  play-house  of  the  world  till  a  few 
weeks  ago.  —You  would  think  a  miracle  had  been  per- 
formed, if  you  knew  what  she  is  doing.  She  has  gone  to 
work  before  me.  6he  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  out 
what  she  should  do.  I  don't  think  she  ever  had  any 
thought  about  it  at  all,  while  I,  it  seems  to  me,  I  have 
always  been  running  about  seeking  for  some  one  to  help 
me  and  give  me  something  to  do." 

"  And  is  not  the  lesson  you  are  to  learn  precisely  this  ? 
Your  friend's  affections,  the  absolute  necessity  she  was 
under,  settled  the  point  for  her  at  once.  There  was  no 
chance  for  vagueness  of  aim  or  effort.  She  perceived 
what  she  could  do,  and  proceeded  to  do  it.  I  have  known 
a  hundred  such  workers.  There  is  one  in  the  room 
below  at  this  moment.  They  are  happy,  for  their  work 
is  done  in  the  natural  way.  But  as  for  you — you  dis- 
quiet yourself  in  vain.  You  are  all  wrong.  I  wish  that 
you  might  go  off  on  a  long  voyage ;  it  would  do  you  good." 

':  Is  it  so  needful  that  one  should  be  relieved  of  all 
serious  thought  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  he  has  manifestly  nothing  to  do  with  it — and 
can  get  nothing  from  it.  Evidently  he  is  not  minding 
his  own  business.  It  is  above  all  things  needful  that  one 
should  be  in  a  healthful  condition ;  which  you  are  not." 

"  Believe  me  notwithstanding,  this  sickness  is  not  unto 
death  !  I  know  it  is  not !"  exclaimed  Stella,  in  a  clearer, 
more  resolute  tone  than  she  had  yet  found  during  this 
interview. 

Miss  "Watson  was  struck  by  it. 

"  It  would  be  a  case  of  suicide  if  it  proved  unto 
death,"  said  she.  "  But,"  she  continued  more  cheerfully, 
"  my  dear,  what  made  you  think  of  book-making  ?" 


220  GETTING    ALONG. 

"Perhaps  because  I  was  driven  to  an  extremity,"  re- 
plied Stella,  despondingly ;  "  and,"  she  added,  as  if  taking 
vengeance  on  herself,  "  perhaps  because  I  was  ambitious." 

"  You  !  of  what?  Praise?  You  cannot  be  so  foolish. 
WJjat  is  praise  ?  who  can  praise  you  ?  would  you  take 
complacence  in  your  own  works  ?  do  you  want  rewards  ? 
would  you  not  be  debased,  beyond  hbpe  of  retrieval,  if 
you  sought  honor  of  men?  .  .  .  Would  you  put  your 
heart  in  a  book  to  have  it  broken  by  a  clown's  whip,  that 
the  people  in  the  pit  might  laugh  ?  Reserve  yourself. 
Be  persuaded  that  you  were  not  made  for  that.  The 
school-teaching  best  befits  you;  and  that  seems  an  absurd, 
ill-judged  disposition  of  yourself.  Woman  alive !  for 
alive  you  are  beyond  question,  you  were  made  for  society. 
And  if  you  need  that  I  should  say  it,  for  guiding  it.  If 
the  '  ehip  of  state '  needs  wise  heads  and  strong  hearts  to 
roan  and  direct  it.  the  gayer  craft  of  society  needs  no  less 
a  wise  head,  and  generous  heart,  and  courageous  soul.  It 
is  your  very  sphere ;  you  must  marry,  and  take  your  place." 

Miss  Watson  read  a  decided  rejection  of  this  counsel 
in  Stella's  face,  which  grew  proud  and  distant,  like  a 
haughty  spirit  in  retreat. 

"  You  must  stay  and  hear  me  out,"  she  continued. 
"  You  look  as  if  you  would  be  beyond  call  in  a  moment. 
Come  !  humble  yourself,  and  sit  down  to  an  old  woman's 
preachment,  and  confess  yourself,  for  a  moment  at  least, 
a  miserable  sinner.  You  are  all  that.  When  I  tell  you 
to  marry,  I  mean  it;  but  I  do  not  intend  you  should 
advertise  for  a  husband  in  the  way  that  is  decidedly  com- 
mon and  unclean.  You  need  not  marry  this  week  nor 
the  next.  And  you  need  not  throw  yourself  away  on  a 
young  or  an  old  roue — for  you  would  thus,  as  thousands 
like  yourself  do,  you  would  destroy  what  influence  you 
might  have  had,  in  the  outset ;  and  because  such  immoral- 
ity, respectable  though  the  world  may  deem  it,  must,  by 


OCCUPY  !  221 

a  law  of  nature,  act  evilly  within,  as  well  as  without,  you; 
and  you  would  deserve  your  fate  if  society  cast  you  out 
as  unfit  to  be  recognized  among  honorable  people. 
Marry  a  man  you  trust  and  love ;  one  who  respects  and 
loves  you — in  the  sense  that  you  receive  whatsoever  is  of 
good  report,  and  love  whatever  commends  itself  to  you  as 
pure  and  beautiful.  Believe  me,  I  am  speaking  what  is 
the  best  truth  for  you.  Study  as  much  as  you  will,  and 
with  a  view  to  being  of  use  ...  I  will  borrow  Mr. 
Silsey's  microscope  some  day,  and  give  you  a  new  idea,  per- 
haps, in  regard  to  that  little,  ill-understood  word,  USE. 
If  one  may  pretend  or  presume  to  comprehend  you,  I 
believe  you  are  honest  in  your  wish  to  be  of  service.  Let 
people,  let  men  and  women,  see  that  your  mind  is  not  a 
•whirligig — that  you  have  a  purpose,  that  you  have  ascer- 
tained it — and  that  you*  are  brave  enough  to  live  for  it. 
That  you  have  some  depth  of  moral  principle.  That  you 
scrupulously  regard  the  ten  commandments.  That  your 
children,  if  you  have  any,  are  yours,  and  that  you  regard 
them — as  such — eminently  worthy  your  care  and  atten- 
tion. That  you  are  a  wife  and  a  mother,  as  well  as  a 
leader  in  society,  and  a  cultivated  woman.  That  you  are, 
in  short,  a  human  being,  with  a  heart  in  your  keeping,  and 
a  soul.  If  you  take  your  place  in  this  way,  it  is  your 
place  ;  if  you  fill  it,  you  will  find,  1  think,  that  your  day- 
duties  will  quite  exhaust  the  strength  to  be  found  in 
night  slumbers.  You  will  be  living  the  life  of  a  reason- 
able creature.  Enjoying  as  much  as  will  be  for  your 
good — but  not  a  whit  more,  if  you  know  how  to  take  it. 
You  have  my  advice.  It  goes  a  little  further  than  my 
former  lecture,  for  I  perceive  you  have  gone  a  little 
further  yourself.  If  we  should  talk  all  day  about  it,  I 
could  say  nothing  more,  or  better.  I  speak  from  observa- 
tion and  experience — society  has  a  place  for  you.  Go 
forward  and  occupy  it." 


222  GETTING   ALONG. 

Many  were  the  words  of  reply  which  passed  through 
Stella's  mind,  but  she  uttered  none  of  them ;  speechless 
she  remained  while  Miss  Watson  pursued  her  lecture. 

The  silence  that  followed  the  speaker's  words  was  un- 
broken by  any  word  of  hers.  Presently,  therefore,  Miss 
Watson  approached  her ;  bending  low,  she  kissed  her, 
whispering,  "  Go  home  and  think  of  these  things.  I  have 
given  you  advice  I  would  have  taken  had  another  given 
it  to  me  when  I  was  of  your  age.  I  should,  perhaps, 
have  been  happier.  Believe  me — I  speak  truth  to  you." 

Without  a  word,  Stella  arose  and  went  away. 


XXXVIII. 

WHEN  Lucia  returned  from  her  visit  to  Rose,  she  had 
resolved  to  inform  Will  of  the  mission  in  which  she  was 
engaged,  and  also  of  some  of  its  h,opes,  but  not  all  of 
them  till  he  should  be  better  prepared  to  receive  them, 
and  enter  into  the  work  they  would  necessitate. 

The  opportunity  that  presented  itself  for  this  display 
of  confidence  was  not,  however,  employed  for  any  such 
purpose.  Will  stood  on  the  door-step  waiting  for  her 
when  she  came  home  again,  and  was  so  occupied  with  his 
own  thoughts  that  he  neither  observed  the  lateness  of  the 
hour,  nor  the  unusual  fact  that  Lucia  had  been  out  at 
such  a  time  alone. 

He  had  been  away  into  the  woods  with  Wadsworth 
Vane,  as  he  proceeded  to  tell  her,  closely  observant,  at  the 
same  time,  of  the  manner  of  reception  his  information 
met.  They  had  wandered  about  among  the  fallen  leaves, 
and,  he  said,  had  talked  for  hours  together ;  and  Vane 
came  back  with  him  to  the  house  to  take  leave  of  Lucia, 
for  he  was  going  away  that  night. 


NEWS.  223 

"  Going  where  ?"  asked  Lucia,  somewhat  disturbed,  as 
Will  perceived  with  secret  satisfaction. 

"  Going  home,"  he  answered. 

"  He  has  no  home." 

"  To  the  place  where  he  was  born,  then." 

«  And  why,  Will  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  has  an  old  flame  of  some  sort  out  there,"  said 
Will,  carelessly. 

"  Did  he  tell  you  ?" 

"  As  good  as  that." 

"He  never  told  me  of  it,"  said  Lucia,  trying  her  best 
to  appear  no  more  than  surprised. 

"  The  fact  is,  Vane  is  an  odd  fellow,"  said  Will.  "  Sim- 
ple as  he  seems,  you  don't  find  him  out  in  a  minute." 

"  I  never  thought  him  simple,"  remarked  Lucia. 

"  No.  He  is,  in  fact,  quite  too  complex.  Did  you 
know  his  father  was  alive  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Perhaps  you  knew,  then,  that  Vane  was  going 
away  ?" 

"No — I  did  not."  Will  thinks  he  shall  not  under- 
stand all  that  puzzles  him  quite  so  rapidly  as  he  antici- 
pated. 

"  The  old  man  is  in  trouble,  and  Vane  is  going  to  see 
about  it,"  he  continued. 

Slowly  Lucia  looks  around  into  Will's  face,  and  she 
smiles  out  the  secret  of  her  heart  ^..not  another  word  do 
they  exchange.  Until  she  lies  down  on  her  bed  Lucia 
has  forgotten  Rose,  and  recurring  at  this  time  to  the  re- 
cent visit  she  has  made,  she  is  glad  to  have  it  so.  She 
will  go  again  to  Rose  before  she  makes  her  visit  known 
to  Will ;  and  she  falls  asleep  thinking  of  Vane. 


224  GETTING    ALONG. 


XXXIX. 

ROSE  needed  not  to  have  been  in  such  haste  to  relieve 
herself  of  her  sister's  presence  on  account  of  the  speedy 
return  of  her  husband,  for  he  did  not  return  home  until 
the  evening  was  far  advanced. 

It  was  chiefly  a  dread  of  his  coming  that  induced  her 
to  send  Lucia  away — but  this  was  not  the  sole  reason. 
To  Rose  the  presence  of  her  young  sister  was  distressing. 
A  reproach  too  keen  and  searching  to  her  own  false,  wasted 
life  was  given,  unawares,  by  that  faithful,  buoyant,  joyful 
nature. 

When  the  door  closed  behind  Lucia,  Rose  sat  down  to 
think  upon  the  visit; — she  recalled  her  sister's  words — the 
hope  Lucia  had  drawn  from  the  youth  of  Rose.  But  what 
was  that  youth  ?  Her  health  long  since  was  exhausted ; 
feeble,  wasted,  and  despairing,  she  had  not  the  nerve,  or 
brain,  or  courage,  for  any  manner  of  exertion  such  as  could 
be  attended  with  any  really  good  result. 

Death,  she  said,  and  felt,  was  the  only  prospect  for  her. 
Death,  lingering  or  speedy,  as  the  case  might  be.  But 
...  it  might  have  been  so  different ! 

To  deaden,  not  to  quicken  thought,  to  deliver  herself 
from  the  tantalizing  it  might  have  been,  and  the  horror 
of  the  impossibility  of  it  shall  be,  the  unhappy  woman 
resorted,  there  was  no  other  resource  left  for  her,  to  the 
opiate  which  had  oftentimes  given  her  relief,  deliverance 
from  herself. 

But  it  did  not  serve  her  thus  in  this  extremity — did  not 
deaden  thought,  but,  instead,  brought  out  the  recollections 
of  former  times  and  scenes  into  startling  relief  before  her 
eyes.  She  looked  back  to  her  wedding-day,  and  the  youth 
that  went  before;  the  years  that  followed  after;  and  upon 
the  age  that  had  prematurely  fallen  upon  her,  such  age 


THE    DESPERATE   DISEASE.  225 

as  has  no  joy,  no  hope,  no  deliverance ;  decrepitude  of 
heart  and  soul  pertaining  to  it,  infirmity  of  will  belong- 
ing to  it — its  prospect  desolation,  dreariness — and  the 
tortures  of  self-accusation  and  shame,  because  of  the  un- 
holy, hopeless  prospect.  The  past  intolerable,  because 
of  its  guilt,  the  future  on  account  of  its  nameless  terrors 
and  despair. 

She  looked  from  herself,  from  the  misery  of  her  own 
present,  to  the  scene  which  Lucia  had  described  in  outline, 
and  which  she  filled  into  a  perfect  picture,  aided  by  her 
excited  imagination.  Her  father,  in  spite  of  the  disgrace 
which  through  her  had  fallen  on  his  age.  growing  younger 
every  day — made  happy  by  his  children  .  .  .  happiness 
in  that  home  !  long  she  thought  over  the  strange  problem. 
And  of  little  Rose  growing  up  under  such  guardianship 
.  .  .  She  recalled  Lucia's  words,  which  had  stirred  up 
her  soul  only  to  mako  its  misery  more  hopeless  from  con- 
scious inability  to  follow  out  any  suggestion  that  pointed 
to  future  integrity  of  life.  It  is  the  awful  anguish  of  this 
hour,  that  while  she  sees  a  good  that  might  be  attained 
by  her  own  resolute  endeavors,  by  an  indefatigable  per- 
sistence in  vigilant  well-doing,  she  falls  exhausted  from 
the  excitement  of  the  thought,  unable  to  receive  it,  be- 
cause already  she  has  destroyed  the  faculties  by  which  to 
achieve,  and  has  retained  alone  the  faculty  by  which  she 
can  perceive  all  that  she  has  lost. 

{The  remembrances  that  rushed  upon  her  soiled  and  de- 
faced womanhood  she  could  not  endure.  Bring  to  the 
roused  sense  a  heavier  opiate — deaden  the  thought  that 
lashes  her  soul  with  the  stripes  of  remorse  and  shame ! 
Soon,  she  knows,  there  will  arrive  an  Eternity  which  has 
no  opiates  .  .  .  sleep  and  forgetfulness  now,  at  any 
price !  - — 

It  is  a  heavy  draught  she  quaffs  in  her  desperation ; 
and  now  the  terrible  memory  is  vanquished ;  it  lies  dumb, 
10* 


226  GETTING   ALONG. 

powerless.     Slumber  binds  her  senses.     The  body  and 
the  mind  repose. 

And  by-and-bye,  as  time  went  on,  the  fire  went  out  upon 
the  hearth — there  was  no  light  there. 

Towards  midnight  Maurice,  the  husband  of  Rose,  came 
home. 

He  went  up  the  dark  stairway  with  unsteady  step.  He 
knew  his  destination,  and  also  when  he  came  to  it,  but 
little  beside.  Opening  the  door  of  the  chamber  he  groped 
forward  to  the  mantel,  took  down  the  lamp,  and  lighted 
it  with  a  match. 

As  he  did  so,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  chair  where  his 
wife  sat  sleeping. 

"  Come,  Rose,1'  he  said,  "  I  want  my  supper ;  since  you 
are  up  yet,  fly  around — I  '11  take  a  good  strong  cup  of 
tea." 

But  Rose  did  not  answer. 

This  hardly  surprised  him :  he  thought  that  she  was 
sleeping,  and,  in  a  louder  voice,  he  said : 

"  Rose,  a  cup  of  tea,  do  you  hear  ?  a  cup  of  tea,  Rose. 
Come,  stir  yourself !  I  want  a  cup  of  tea,  a  good  strong 
cup  of  tea." 

He  arose,  crossed  the  hearth,  and  laid  his  hand  on  her 
arm.  but  she  never  moved.  He  shook  her  gently,  less 
gently,  roughly,  passionately;  but  she  slept  on.  He 
listened  to  her  breathing,  and  muttered  drunkenly  some- 
thing about  the  monstrous  injustice  of  a  man  beiug  cursed 
with  a  drunken  wife ;  and  talked  about  the  probability  of 
a  divorce. 

Placing  the  lamp  upon  the  table,  he  drew  the  chair  he 
had  occupied  across  the  hearth,  and  sitting  down  in  front 
of  his  wife  he  began  to  talk  to  her.  His  own  words  led 
him  on.  His  own  confused  thoughts  maddened  him,  as 
did  her  placid  slumber,  the  fire  found  its  way  into  his 
brain — he  was  beside  himself. 


THE   DEED    DONE.  227 

He  took  her  hands  and  held  them  in  his,  as  in  a  vice, 
but  she  stirred  not ;  he  brought  the  lamp  and  held  it  in 
her  face,  but  neither  the  bright  light,  nor  the  heat  which 
scorched  eye-lash  and  brow,  moved  her.  Still  she  slept 
that  heavy  sleep  that  was  deep,  almost,  as  the  sleep  of 
death. 

Then  he  arose,  and  walked  in  great  excitement,  mut- 
turing,  up  and  down  the  room.  At  the  door  of  the 
chamber  he  at  last  stood,  watchful,  listening,  trying  to 
reflect,  and  to  collect  his  thoughts.  He  walked  about  un- 
steadily, yet  with  light  and  cautious  tread.  A  thought  is 
lurking  in  his  brain ;  but  he  dare  not  call  it  out  into  full 
light,  and  steadily  survey  it.  At  length  of  its  own  energy  it 
comes  forth,  and  his  brain  is  in  a  whirl  and  a  blaze — and 
in  the  shadows  of  the  chamber  up  and  down  flashes  the 
knife  he  has  taken  from  the  table,  with  which  he  now  is 
playing!  .  .  . 

There  is  blood  on  his  hand — on  the  knife  ! 

What  is  this !  the  drooping  head,  the  pale  face,  grow- 
ing deathly  white,  the  solitary,  long  drawn  breath — oh, 
where  is  Rose,  Maurice  ?  She  has  gone  without  a  struggle 
— away,  away — oh,  whither  ? 

What  is  this  that  has  changed  the  poor  room  in  an  in- 
stant ?  It  is  an  obscure  and  lonely  place  no  longer.  It 
is  a  chamber  of  devils — its  walls  open  !  it  fills  all  space 
.  .  .it  is  the  Universe — it  is  eternity  !  The  braggart 
awakened,  alive  to  the  deed  he  has  wrought,  may  skulk 
down,  he  does !  down  the  dark  stair-way,  into  the  dark 
street,  he  may  fly — oh,  does  he  not?  through  the  city 
streets,  away  om  to  the  country  highway — to  the  world's 
end  !  but  she  is  with  him  .  .  .  sighing  breath,  and  bleed- 
ing breast,  and  deadly  pallor  of  cheek  are  her  image ! 
she  goes  with  him  to  the  world's  end,  as  she  promised  at 
the  altar ;  more  faithfully  than  any  other  that  promise  is 
fulfilled.  He  flies,  and  she  is  the  companion  of  his  jour- 


228  GETTING   ALONG. 

ney.  Wher?  will  he  find  the  divorce  of  which  he  talked 
but  now  ?  Into  what  court  will  he  go  and  plead  her  in- 
fidelity ?  Does  she  not  cleave  to  him  ?  is  she  not  ever 
with  him  ?  was  ever  faithfulness  like  this  ?  Through  all 
going  out  and  coming  in  she  is  beside  him  ;  her  voice  is 
ever  in  his  ear ;  he  sees  no  face  but  hers,  it  shines  be- 
tween his  and  all  other  faces  ;  and  the  mark  of  the  bap- 
tism of  blood  is  upon  her. 

He  makes  no  delivery  of  himself  to  justice,  and  jus- 
tice never  finds  him  .  .  .  Does  she  not  ?  She  opens  for 
him  none  of  her  prison-grates,  puts  no  fetters  on  him. 
There  is  no  trial  for  him  ...  Is  there  not  ?  Is  there 
no  prison  save  the  heavy  pile  of  mason-work,  with  its 
grates  and  bars  of  iron  ?  What  think  you  is  this  blue 
vault  of  heaven,  and  the  grass-grown  earth  of  the  world 
to  the  eye  and  the  sense  of  guilt  ?  Ever  the  sentence 
of  death  is  sounding  in  his  ears.  Upon  his  bed,  in 
dreams,  in  the  helplessness  of  her  slumber,  Rose  sleeps 
beside  him.  The  eyes  of  death  are  on  him — blood  on 
his  hand — death  in  his  heart !  Where  is  his  place  on 
earth  ?  Who  will  point  it  out  for  him  ?  who  will  main- 
tain him  in  it  ?  who  will  assure  it  to  him  ?  There  is  no 
rest  for  Mortimer  Maurice  .  .  ,  a  fugitive  and  a  vaga- 
bond he  goes  seeking  his  place  of  rest  and  shelter — and 
for  evermore  is  seeking  it ;  and  he  shall  never  find  it. 


XL. 

IN  the  parlor  to  which  Stella  bent  her  steps  on  her  re- 
turn home  from  Miss  Watson's  room,  waited  Mr.  Falcon, 
who  had  come  with  the  message  Susan,  the  night  before, 
had  besought  him  to  deliver — he  waited  to  deliver  it  in 
person. 

When  he  has  made  known  the  object  of  his  call,  Mr. 


THE    SMOOTHING    OF   ROUGH    PLACES.  229 

Falcon  seems  in  no  haste  to  take  himself  away ;  and  yet, 
•when  he  came  hither  he  had  no  other  thing  to  say.  But 
time  goes  on,  how  it  happens  Stella  would  find  it  impossi- 
ble to  tell,  and  the  street-preacher  of  yesterday  is  the 
house-preacher  of  to-day,  and  he  seems  to  be  speaking  to 
more  purpose  than  preacher  has  ever  before  spoken  to 
this  listener. 

He  is  making  rough  places  smooth  by  his  talk — he  pro- 
pounds great  mysteries  in  those  simply-uttered  words  ;  for 
once  Stella's  eye  is  single,  for  it  looks  at  truth  through 
his,  and  strangely  is  her  spirit  filled  with  light.  This  has 
happened  to  her  in  less  degree  when  she  has  been  with 
him  before ;  but  now  the  light  does  not  glimmer,  it  shines, 
pervading  all  things,  and  resistless.  She,  Stella,  mean- 
while wonders — at  him,  at  herself,  at  the  universe  of 
thoughts  and  things ;  but  she  is  fearful — she  is  cautious  ; 
once  to  the  speaker  who  had  spoken  thus  she  would  have 
poured  out  her  heart  with  not  the  reservation  of  an  in- 
stinct, or  an  impulse.  But  Stella  has  grown  weary,  ever 
since  she  came  into  his  presence.  She  has,  on  the  whole, 
been  so  many  times  deceived,  has  received,  after  all  her 
seeking,  so  little  good  at  the  hands  of  others,  that  she  is, 
at  the  least,  distrustful  of  herself  and  them.  She  be- 
gins to  believe,  and  this  morning's  experience  has  helped 
to  confirm  the  belief,  that  others  can  give  her  nothing. 
And,  as  to  herself ! — 

She  will  not,  on  any  topic,  speak  out  her  mind,  for 
whither  might  the  speaking  lead  ?  She  is  reserved  and 
cautious — and  the  more  so,  beyond  doubt,  because  this  is 
the  man  under  whom,  last  night,  in  lonely  meditations, 
she  thought  (remembering  the  words  he  had  spoken  to  the 
fallen  and  the  falling,  the  desolate  and  forsaken,  the  hungry 
and  the  naked)  it  would  be  a  blessed  privilege  to  labor. 

She  is  prudent,  quiet,  philosophical,  sententious.  She 
is  ?  So  she  believes.  But  the  blood  flows  faster  through 


230  GETTING   ALONG. 

her  veins  than  through  the  veins  of  prudent  reserve,  or 
a  self-possessed  quietude.  And  Mr.  Falcon  does  not  lis- 
ten with  attention  so  absorbed  in  what  she  says,  that  he 
cannot  interpret  what  her  eyes  are  uttering,  the  confess- 
ion of  belief  they  constantly  are  making.  And  the  good 
man  is  not  a  little  troubled  by  his  observations.  "  She 
is  so  much  better  than  she  knows,"  he  thinks ;  "  but  what 
strange  affectation  is  this  that  she  should  speak  in  this 
way  ?  She  would  have  me  take  her  for  a  heathen.  But 
I  know  better." 

And  acting  on  his  instinctive  perception  of  the  truth 
as  it  is  in  Stella,  he  adapts  his  words  to  what  he  con- 
ceives her  need ;  and  the  very  manner  in  which  she  con- 
ducts so  much  of  argument  as  she  chooses  to  advance, 
persuades  him  of  the  ground  on  which  he  stands. 

He  lets  her  have  her  way,  and  she  advances  from  the 
monosyllabic  position  she  at  first  maintained,  and  she 
goes  on,  unconsciously,  arguing  with  herself  aloud,  and 
his  words,  now  and  then,  come  out  like  great  flashes  of 
light,  simple,  few,  full  of  illumination ;  he  supplies  her 
with  weapons  wherewith  to  persuade  herself  against  her- 
self, till  the  battle  shall  be  quite  fought  out.  Entangled 
by  the  knottiest  difficulties — freed  by  a  word  that  cuts 
the  cord  asunder — she  is  carried  away  in  the  conversa- 
tion to  a  forgetfulness  of  everything  except  the  weighty 
facts  involved  in  it,  and  the  fight  is  fought  out,  until 
there  is  nothing  left  of  barrier,  between  her  soul  and  his. 
Herself,  Falcon,  and  the  Absolute,  are  alone  in  the 
world  together. 

Hardly  conscious  of  all  this,  Stella  nevertheless  at 
length  pauses  in  confusion,  to  think  how  far  she  has  be- 
trayed herself.  But  the  confusion  is  merely  momentary — 
from  that,  also,  she  is  liberated ;  and  she  says,  retaining 
now  no  remembrance  whatever  of  the  counsel  she  thaj.  morn- 
ing sought  of  Miss  Watson,  and  the  counsel  she  rejected  : 


PLAIN    SPEAKING.  231 

"  I  heard  your  sermon  yesterday,  Mr.  Falcon.  Will 
you  engage  me  as  a  teacher  for  your  school  ?" 

He  was  more  deliberate  in  accepting  this  proposition, 
than  Stella  had  anticipated ;  neither  were  his  delibera- 
tion, and  the  want  of  surprise  with  which  he  listened  to 
her  demand  or  request,  quite  what  Stella  had  expected. 

"  What  are  your  qualifications  ?"  said  he,  seriously. 
"  The  post  will  be  a  very  difficult  one  to  occupy  and 
maintain.  It  is  needful  that  it  be  strongly  held,  without 
the  slightest  wavering,  or  the  whole  enterprise  in  which 
I  purpose  to  embark  will  receive  a  shock  which  would  be 
most  unfortunate,  not  to  say  ruinous."  And  he  proceed- 
ed, as  coolly  as  if  bargaining  for  a  horse,  to  demand  again 
the  special  qualifications  she  had  for  the  work. 

Stella  had  not  quite  viewed  herself  in  this  light :  she 
was  astonished  by  his  words,  and,  for  a  moment,  not  al- 
together pleased.  Mr.  Falcon  saw  that  she  was  not,  and 
said,  in  the  spirit  of  strict  justice  that  possessed  him : 

"  This  is  no  time  nor  occasion  for  compliment.  I 
should  not  presume,  in  any  other  capacity,  to  speak  thus 
to  you.  But  you  will  perceive  that  when  we  undertake  to 
be  laborers  in  the  Vineyard  of  Almighty  God,  we  should 
be  prudent  in  all  our  operations,  and  do  nothing  hastily. 
It  is  needful  that  whoever  undertakes  the  school  should 
be  strong,  and  full  of  hope — able  to  endure  fatigue,  and 
exposure  ;  and  should  be  patient  to  the  last  degree.  The 
person  must  have  natural  gifts  that  fit  him  peculiarly  for 
the  place  ;  no  acquirements  will  so  well  serve  as  a  natu- 
ral fitness  and  adaptation  to  the  place  and  service^  He 
should  have  a  sunny  temper,  a  conciliatory  and  per- 
suasive tongue-*— and  be  sufficiently  magnetic  to  attract, 
and  control,  the  hearts  of  children.  And  withal,  he 
should  be  so  full  of  charities  as  to  be  able  to  cover  up 
any  amount  of  sins  in  others  from  the  observation  of  his 
own  proud  thoughts.  If  I  were  a  man  of  the  world  I 


232  GETTING    ALONG. 

should  not  speak  such  things  to  you — if  I  regarded  you 
as  a  woman  of  the  world,  which  you  have  not  permitted 
me  to  do,  I  should  certainly  have  no  occasion  for  such 
speech.  If  any  good  result  is  to  come  of  this  enterprise, 
the  movers  in  it,  you  will  allow,  should  clearly  under- 
stand each  other.  Surely  I  have  not  offended  you." 

"  I  trust  that  I  am  as  able  to  hear  as  you  to  speak." 
said  Stella,  with  slow  and  serious  utterance.  And  there 
she  paused — but  briefly  :  "  I  know  that  I  could  grow 
into  possession  of  all  those  requisites  if  I  have  them 
not,"  she  continued  with  hesitation.  "  I  know  not  that 
I  have  them.  I  think,  at  least,  I  am  no  coward.  I  can 
learn  patience.  I  shall  be  cheerful  ...  I  believe  I  have 
had  trouble  enough  in  striving  to  govern  myself,  to  con- 
duct my  inward  being,  not  to  be  very  uncharitable  towards 
others." 

"  We  are  certainly  friends  for  life,"  said  Mr.  Falcon — - 
but  there  he  suddenly  paused.  "  And  I  had  almost  said 
companions,"  he  went  on  gravely.  "  Why  may  we  not 
be  companions  ?  Why  should  we  not  be  1  The  unity 
of  hearts  in  a  great  purpose  is  the  blessing  of  God,  the 
seal  of  his  approval.  —  Can  I  thus  speak  to  you,  and,  fail- 
ing to  meet  your  acceptance,  not  drive  you  from  the  stand 
you  have  barely  taken.  You  are  a  true,  courageous 
spirit ;  I  need  such  to  be  with  me  night  and  day.  Per- 
haps I  may  also  be  helpful  to  you." 

Astonished  at  this  address,  and  hardly  certain  of  the 
speaker's  meaning,  yet  strangely  mindful  at  the  moment 
of  Miss  Watson's  recent  words,  Stella  looked  her  sur- 
prise while  Mr.  Falcon  spoke.  But  he  had  no  fear  that 
he  should  not  be  ultimately  understood  ;  the  sudden 
flush  that  came,  and  went,  and  was  seen  no  more  upon 
the  face  turned  towards  him,  assured  him  that  all  was 
not  uncertainty  and  doubt  in  her  heart.  She  had  re- 
ceived a  trifle  more  of  illumination. 


WORTH    CONSIDERATION  ?  233 

"  It  would  ill  become  me  here,"  he  continued,  "  to  say 
a  word  that  I  would  shrink  from  speaking  before  a  world 
of  listening  men  and  women  ;  a  world  of  the  wisest  and 
purest.  For  I  bear  in  mind  that  I  speak  not  for  myself 
only.  I  shall  presently  leave  Mr.  Baldwin's  house — his 
son  is  rapidly  recovering  :  your  little  friend  Susan  needs 
no  assistance  in  the  work  she  has  to  do.  I  opened  her 
mind  more  fully  on  the  subject  last  night  than  it  has 
been  before — she  will  come  up  to  the  point  well  and 
nobly.  It  is  my  purpose  to  give  my  time  and  strength 
to  the  work  you  refer  to.  I  hold  it  to  be  in  my  steward- 
ship. I  would  have  you,  indeed,  for  my  companion  and 
helper.  I  am  not  speaking  on  the  impulse  of  the  mo- 
ment ;  nor  would  I  have  you  for  a  moment  suppose  that 
my  inclination  is  a  sudden  one  :  it  was  not  occasioned  by 
the  spirit  you  have  evinced  this  morning ;  but  I  shall  not 
flatter  you  ...  I  thought  often  of  you  before  this  work 
of  evangelization  unfolded  itself  to  me  as  my  work.  •  I 
wished  that  I  might  be  daily  with  one  like  you,  until  I 
came  gradually  even  to  wish,  not  for  one  like  you,  but 
for  yourself.  I  may  be  mistaken — it  is,  perhaps,  only  a 
fancy  encouraged  by  the  very  greatness  of  my  hope — but 
I  cannot  help  believing  that  some  other  will  than  mine  is 
working  in  this  business  .  .  .  else  it  would,  indeed,  seem 
passing  strange  that  I  should  look  forward  to  such  a 
prospect.  I  have  labored  hitherto  alone,  and  have  had 
pleasant  dreams,  which  sometimes — but  not  often — trans- 
formed themselves  into  real  facts  of  Experience  ;  but  this 
dreaming  may  be  even  wilder  than  I  acknowledge  it  to 
be.  Consider,  Miss  Gammon,  if  this  subject  is  worth  a 
moment's  consideration." 

"  Yes,  a  moment's,"  said  Stella,  with  great  delibera- 
tion, looking  frankly  at  the  speaker ;  but  she  had  thought 
out  a  sequel  for  the  story  of  this  day  with  the  rapidity  of 
lightning,  with  the  instantaneousness  of  an  intuition. 


234  GETTING    ALONG. 

/One  may  plod  on  in  search  of  truth  for  a  lifetime,  but  the 
aiscovery  at  last  has  not  the  seeming  of  a  gradual  opening. 
An  adventurous  inland  bird  flitting  above  his  ship  told 
the  disheartened  mariner  of  a  New  World  at  hand. 

"  Only  a  moment's  ?" 

Stella  gravely  bowed ;  not  a  word  came  now  at  her 
bidding,  but  in  her  heart  there  was  confidence  and  calm- 
ness— her  redemption  had  drawn  nigh — and,  persuaded 
of  it  beyond  all  further  doubting,  she  was  at  peace. 

"  And  can  you  decide  thus  suddenly  ?"  asked  Falcon. 

"  Yes." 

Here  he  paused — he  questioned  her  no  further ;  but 
not  in  uncertainty  and  embarrassment  was  his  voice 
hushed — his  soul  was  still  within  him,  and  he  could  not 
break  the  silence. 

Long  he  paused,  and  he  was  not  the  first  to  speak ; 
{there  came  a  voice  at  length  upon  the  stillness,  low,  but 
firm,  true  and  full  of  melody. 

"  What  the  Church  is  to  Christ  I  will  be  to  thee  .  .  . 
now  lead  me  till  I  am  free  as  God's  angels.]' 

Falcon  did  not  throw  himself  upon  his  knees  in  grati- 
tude before  the  speaker — did  not  manifest  a  sense  of 
triumph  as  he  listened  to  this  voice;  oppressed,  overcome, 
be  seemed  for  a  moment  by  Stella's  words,  for  that  in- 
stant their  relations,  as  the  world  would  behold  them, 
were  before  his  mind — she  seemed  no  mate  for  him,  in 
spite  of  her  humility  that  morning — she  was  of  a  nature 
,80  proud,  her  beauty  was  so  peerless ;  and  what  was  he  ? 
but  the  mirror  was  withdrawn  from  his  eyes ;  he  heard 
only  her  voice  and  her  last  spoken  words — saw  only  that 
her  eyes  were  upon  him,  and  that  she  had  not  spoken  on 
an  impulse,  surprised  into  such  utterance  as  her  life 
would  fail  to  maintain.  And  he  said  : 

"  You  tempt  me  to  speak  proudly,  but  I  dare  not.     I 


A   CONQUEST.  235 

dare  only  to  hope  that  He  whose  bride  the  Church  is 
will  make  us  both  free  indeed — that  the  banner  of  His 
love  may  be  over  us." 


XL. 

SUSAN  was  in  the  library,  whither  she  had  gone  with 
Clarence. 

When  he  went  up  the  staircase  with  his  usual  morning 
offering  of  flowers  for  Susan,  Clarence,  to  his  great  amaze- 
ment, found  her  walking  alone,  unaided,  in  the  hall.  Be- 
fore he  could  speak  she  said,  for  Susan  had  now,  since 
the  last  night's  conversation  with  Mr.  Falcon,  in  which 
he  seemed  to  have  decided  her  destiny,  no  one  on  whom 
she  could  rely  but  her  own  self : 

"  I  am  trying  my  strength.  I  can  walk  down  to  the 
library  I  think,  if  you  will  help  me,  Clarence." 

And  so,  with  some  joyous  exclamations,  to  which  Su- 
san paid  no  heed,  he  went  down  the  stairs  with  her,  and 
would  fain  have  carried  her  in  his  arms,  instead  of  mere- 
ly extending  the  slight  support  which  was  all  that  Susan 
received. 

As  if  doubtful  of  herself,  she  made  haste  to  explain 
her  intention  as  they  entered  the  library. 

"  Mr.  Falcon  is  going  to  teach  us  here,  you  and  I.  We 
are  going  to  school ;  did  you  know  it,  Clarence  ?" 

Susan  did  not  speak  with  the  usual  slowness  of  utter- 
ance with  which,  hi  speaking  to  him,  it  was  needful  to 
enunciate  thoughts ;  but  with  nervous  rapidity.  This 
might  have  been  the  reason  why  he  was  so  long  in  an- 
swering her ;  the  idea  so  suddenly  advanced  did  not  pre- 
sent itself  to  his  mind  clearly  and  well. 

But  presently  he  said,  with  a  glad  voice,  and  a  glance 
which,  bright  though  it  was;  threw  a  shadow  on  the  heart 


236  GETTING   ALONG. 

of  the  child — but  a  momentary  shadow  only — for  she  was 
equal  to  the  demand  which  herself,  as  well  as  others,  was 
now  making  on  her  life  : 

"  You  and  I !  That  is  the  best  thing  I  ever  heard, 
Susy !  What  books  ?" 

«  All  books." 

"  We  shall  be  a  long  while  about  it,  then,"  he  said, 
now  well  assured.  "  It  will  be  years — forever.  Do  you 
see  ?" 

With  nothing  less  than  an  eternity  was  he  satisfied,  in 
view  of  his  and  her  connection.  This  fact  appeared  in 
every  variety  of  form  of  speech  and  act  from  him.  Susan 
saw;  but  she  shut  out  the  prospect  quickly,  and  said, 
"Yes,  Clarence." 

And  he  added,  as  if  thinking  his  inmost  thought  aloud 
in  solitude,  for  when  he  had  said  it  he  looked  at  her 
startled  and  abashed,  before  he  completed  his  medita- 
tion : 

"  If  I  thought  that  she  would  ever  go  away  I  would — " 
there  he  stopped. 

His  look  frightened  Susan  ;  it  was  wild  and  desperate, 
and  yet  so  sad  and  hopeless  for  the  moment,  that  she,  be- 
holding, could  not  control  the  compassionating  impulse 
that  led  her  to  exclaim  : 

"  Where  could  I  go,  Clarence?"  And  then  his  satisfac- 
tion seemed  so  great  at  the  picture  of  loneliness  and  help- 
lessness her  words  presented,  that  she,  half-indignant, 
half-exultant,  said,  with  a  strong  inward  voice,  to  her 
poor  heart,  (:  But  I  have  a  home — I  can  go  to  Mr. 
Leighton;"  and  some  little  comfort  she  drew  up  from 
that  reflection,  although  in  the  same  moment  she  rebuked 
herself  by  the  assurance  that  she  should  never  go  to  him, 
never  while  Clarence  stood  in  need  of  her  in  such  ways 
as  Mr.  Falcon  had  pointed  out. 

Clarence  now  suddenly  began  to  look  upon  himself  as 


NO    WASTE   IN    CREATION.  237 

Susan's  entertainer,  for  the  hour  at  least ;  and  industri- 
ously he  set  about  the  task,  delightful  to  him,  of  amusing 
her.  He  brought  down  from  the  library  shelves  volume 
after  volume,  and  did  finally  succeed  in  greatly  interest- 
ing her.  And  she  forgot  that  she  was  Susan,  and  he 
Clarence — that  this  was  the  Hall  library  into  which  she 
had  but  now  come  as  into  a  prison  cell — that  Mr.  Leigh- 
ton's  letter  was  lying  in  her  bosom,  with  a  secret  that  no 
soul  should  share  with  her,  not  even  Stella  Gammon, 
whom  Mr.  Falcon  was  so  long  in  bringing. 

****** 

Now  Lucia  Tree  had  met  with  a  loss.  Bat  she  was 
not  yet  aware  of  it — she  had  so  many  other  thoughts  in 
her  mind — but  De  Lisle  Layard  was  aware  of  it,  and  so 
was  David  Baldwin.  They,  however,  were  not  cognizant 
of  the  fact  in  the  same  sense  that  she  was  yet  to  be.  On 
the  table,  which  was  gradually  being  disburdened  of  its 
medley  of  curious  trifles  from  many  foreign  lands,  which 
have  gone,  we  may  here  state  for  the  gratification  of 
the  curious  reader,  to  enrich  the  convent  parlor,  and 
Aunt  Judith's  mantel — sacred  as  relics  are  they  to  Aunt 
Judith  ....  on  this  table  was  lying  at  this  moment, 
while  David  and  Layard  are  walking  up  the  avenue,  and 
ascending  the  stone  steps  of  the  hall,  a  trifling  scroll 
which  the  latter  picked  up  in  the  street  last  evening,  and 
over  which  his  mind  bent  plotting  all  night  long.  How 
true  it  is  that  there  is  no  waste  in  creation  !  that  nothing 
in  the  world  is  lost — that  a  thing  called  into  being  is  in 
being  forever  !  From  the  "  lost  arts  "  which  are  living 
ideas  in  the  minds  of  their  vanished  originators  forever 
and  'ever,  in  one  shape  or  another,  to  this  scrap  of  paper 
with  a  badly-executed  face  upon  it,  which  Lucia  dropped 
last  night  when  she  went  hurrying  home  from  her  inter- 
view with  Rose,  there  's  nothing  lost,  nor  can  be.  .Ideas 


238  GETTING   ALONG. 

are  eternal-j— and  scraps  of  paper  made  of  rags  and  straw 
may  be  also  of  eternal  import. 

A  little  while  ago,  Layard  said  to  David,  carelessly  un- 
rolling the  drawing : 

"  Saw  you  ever  face  like  that?" 

David  took  the  paper,  held  it  in  various  light — curi- 
ously scanned  it. 

"  The  longer  you  look  the  less  like  is  it.  I  thought  at 
first,  but  it  is  not  so  like  him — if  I  look  longer  I  shall 
not  see  it  at  all." 

"  See  who?"  said  Layard,  restraining  his  interest  in 
the  answer  that  should  be,  so  that  it  seemed  the  utmost 
carelesness  of  questioning. 

"  The  professor — Leighton,"  said  Baldwin. 

"  His  face  occurred  to  me  at  once,"  said  Layard,  well 
satisfied  with  the  answer  .  .  . 

"  It  is  a  little  singular,  that  the  men  who  have  been  pro- 
posed as  candidates  for  the  presidency  of  the  college  are,  not 
one  of  them,  popular.  There  is  some  serious  objection 
raised  against  them.  Suppose  we  come  forward  with  an 
entirely  new  name,  we  should  carry  the  election  beyond  a 
question.  And  there  is  no  man  I  know  of  who  would  in 
time  do  such  essential  service  to  the  college  itself — so 
conduce  to  its  growth  and  fair  fame,  as  Professor  Mark 
Leighton.  Do  you  remember  with  what  enthusiasm  the 
students  all  regarded  him  ?" 

Upon  this  the  young  men  entered  into  an  argument 
and  discussion,  as  to  the  actual  qualifications  of  Leighton 
for  this  office.  They  did  not  entirely  agree  about  them, 
for  David  had  no  purpose  to  serve,  and  consequently  took 
a  more  sober  survey  of  the  matter — but  Layard  persisted 
in  maintaining  the  points  first  advanced,  that  as  Leigh- 
ton's  qualifications  for  the  position  were  beyond  question, 
so  was  the  certainty  of  his  election,  if  his  name  were 
brought  forward. 


TAKING    AN    OBSERVATION.  239 

They  had  not  dropped  the  discussion  when  they  entered 
the  library  where  Susan  and  Clarence  were  ;  they  were 
still  speaking  of  it,  and  an  eager  listener  they  had  in 
the  young  girl  who  talked  now  so  busily  with  Clarence, 
when  Stella  Cammon  was  shown  into  the  room  by  Mr. 
Baldwin,  who  had  detained  Falcon  in  the  hall,  and  back 
to  whom  he  went  immediately  for  a  special  conversation 
on  the  all-absorbing  topic  of  the  time — with  him  at 
least — of  Clarence,  and  the  probabilities  in  reference  to 
Susan. 

Does  any  one  note  the  peculiar  satisfaction  of  Mr.  De 
Lisle  Layard's  heart,  which  manifests  itself  in  his  genial 
and  abundant  discourse  ?  does  any  eye  observe  the 
rapidity  of  his  glances — how  his  eyes  flash  from  David  to 
Stella,  and  from  Stella  back  to  David,  until  they  abso- 
lutely seem  to  impart  their  meaning  to  the  heart  of 
David,  to  inform  him  with  new"  perceptions,  new  impulses, 
new  desires? 

You  may  read  admiration  merely — but  you  read  that 
with  distinctness  so  that  you  think  you  cannot  have  erred 
in  this — in  the  eyes  of  David  Baldwin  as  he  extends  the 
courtesy  of  the  house  towards  this  young  and  imposing 
woman.  You  may  read  more  in  the  face  of  Susan,  if 
you  go  beyond  the  timid  joy  that  shines  from  her  glowing 
face.  She  thought  in  truth  the  last  time  that  Stella 
came,  when  Miss  Baldwin  was  with  her  also,  that  Stella 
was  magnificent — she  does  not  look  less  so  to  the  child's 
eyes  now — and  she  wondered  that  day,  and  she  is  wonder- 
ing again,  if  David,  who  speaks  so  much  to  her,  and  yet 
whose  conversation  is  so  different  from  that  addressed  by 
him  to  all  other  persons,  so  far  as  her  observation  has  ex- 
tended, and  Susan's  observation  extends  further  and  wider 
than  you  might  guess,  she  wondered  then  and  wonders 
now,  if  David  does  not  think  Stella  Cammon  "  splendid," 
and  if  he  can  help  loving  her  ?  For  how  can  anybody  help  it? 


240  GETTING   ALONG. 

As  to  Clarence,  he  sees  nothing  but  Susan.  Stella 
reigns,  and  Layard  labors,  but  he  knows  nothing  of  it. 
He  has  no  world  but  his  own. 

In  those  few  minutes  two  things  have  become  settled 
in  Layard's  mind — two  plans  are  prominent  among  his 
multitude  of  plans. 

And  when,  in  good  time — his  own  time,  deliberately 
taken,  for  never  yet  was  he  in  haste,  when  De  Lisle  Lay- 
ard comes  to  speak  again  of  the  college  and  of  Professor 
Leighton,  his  eyes,  it  is  true,  are  not  fastened  upon  Stella, 
but  he  sees  the  face,  and  knows  the  effort  with  which  it 
preserves  its  quiet,  the  force  with  which  she  controls  her 
voice  from  speech  .  .  .  The  picture  that  he  found  last 
night  was  drawn  by  her  beyond  a  doubt  .  .  .  the  dash- 
ing and  fearless  lines  had  proclaimed  it  to  be  hers,  as  well 
as  the  initials  he  read  in  the  corner  of  the  paper  just  un- 
der the  drawing.  Now,  wherefore  had  she  drawn  it  ? 
what  motive  had  impelled  her  hand  ?  in  what  relation 
stood  she  to  that  man  ? 

He  had  hoped  that  surprise  would  break  her  silence — 
where  had  she  seen  the  man  ?  why  had  she  made  the  pic- 
ture of  him  ?  wherefore  did  she  keep  these  things  a  secret, 
if  they  were  a  secret  with  her  ?  He  could  not  answer 
these  questions.  But  he  did  ask  a  question  on  which,  in 
turn,  Stella  pondered  long  in  her  heart,  though  she  an- 
swered at  ouce  with  quiet  ease,  that  was  only  not  careless 
indifference — Had  she  ever  met  with  Mr.  Leighton  ? 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  Not  in  St.  John's  ?"  said  Layard  and  David  Baldwin 
in  Qne  breath. 

Stella  hesitated  and  glanced  at  Susan,  but  the  hesita- 
tion was  so  brief,  the  glance  so  inadvertent,  none  but 
Layard  could  have  noticed  it.  But  Susan  seemed  to  un- 
derstand the  look,  and  gave  assent  to  it. 


A    LOOK    WITHIN.  241 

"  At  the  beach,"  said  Stella,  "  in  the  summer  when  I 
was  visiting  Susan.'' 

And  they  went  on  to  talk  of  other  things,  the  circle 
being  meantime  enlarged  by  the  entrance  of  Isidore  and 
Horace  Chilton,  and  presently  by  the  presence  of  Ishmael 
and  Mr.  Falcon. 

Half  an  hour  passed  swiftly  away  in  gay  conversation, 
of  which,  in  spite  of  herself,  Stella  Gammon  was  the  soul 
and  spirit.  Ishmael,  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  near 
Susan,  watched  her,  and  made  up  his  mind  that  she,  of 
all  the  women  in  the  city,  was  the  wife  for  David — for  the 
old  man,  since  his  thoughts  had  dwelt  so  much  on  the  af- 
fairs of  his  son  Clarence,  could  hardly  think  at  all  off  the 
line  matrimonial ;  and  thus  do  we  account  for  it  that,  be- 
fore the  party  broke  up,  he  was  leading  Stella  in  a  sort 
of  triumph  through  the  conservatory  and  the  garden, 
himself  captivated  by  her  beauty,  and  won  by  the  charm 
of  her  manners  and  conversation.  David,  in  unconscious 
obedience  to  the  will  of  some  of  those  around  him,  was 
pursuing  the  same  vein  of  contemplation;  and  presently 
he  followed  in  his  father's  steps,  joining  him  and  Stella 
in  the  garden,  to  Mr.  Baldwin's  great  delight. 

Then  there  was  Mr.  Falcon  observant  of  these  symp- 
toms, and  shrinking  from  them,  though,  be  it  observed,  in 
a  manly  and  triumphant  way,  for  he  was  doubtful,  unbe- 
lieving, when  Isidore  said,  '-(How  dare  David  trust  him- 
self in  the  hand  of  the  greatest  coquette  in  St.  John's. 
Mr.  Falcon  you  had  best  go  look  after  that  susceptible 
brother  of  mine." 

And  he  was  content  to  remain  in  the  library,  and  sit 
down  by  Susan's  side  and  enter  into  chat  with  her,  with 
rather  a  grateful  emotion  rising  toward  De  Lisle  Layard 
the  while,  who  had  said  so  opportunely : 

<:  Nay,  Mr.  Falcon.  If  David  has  a  heart  of  flesh  we 
should  bless  the  lady  who  can  make  the  discovery.  For 

VOL.    II.  11 


242  GETTING    ALONG. 

myself,  I  know  the  man,  and  I  believe  his  heart  is  harder 
than  Pharaoh's." 

At  which  Isidore  turned  to  Horace  Chilton,  who  stood 
in  her  shadow  :  •> 

"  Is  she  not  peerless,  Mr.  Chilton  ?"  she  asked,  intend- 
ing that  he  should  aver  she  was  in  no  way  so. 

"I  know  not  but  she  might  be,  seen  under  other  cir- 
cumstances with  other  surroundings — she  has  labored 
under  disadvantage  here,"  was  the  courtly  answer.  Hor- 
ace said  it  without  blushing,  and  with  an  emphasis  quite 
unmistakable. 

Isidore  made  no  answer  to  the  remark,  but  turned  part- 
ly away  with  a  smile  that  pleased  him.  He  actually 
thought  he  had  said  the  good  thing  in  the  ear  already 
poisoned  by  flatteries.  Turning  again  towards  Horace, 
she  laid  her  hands  with  careless  familiarity  on  his  arm, 
and  her  eyes  looked  straight  into  his. 

"  We  shall,  some  of  us,  go  to  the  concert  to-night. 
Come  and  accompany  us."  That  was  his  reward.  As 
he  murmured  his  thanks  in  her  hearing  his  eyes  said  still 
more  than  his  words,  Could  she  see  as  well  as  hear  ? 

What  though  she  did  ?  If  she  could  so  wrong  as  to 
madden  him,  until,  like  the  fallen  Nebuchadnezzar,  he 
was  brought  to  a  sometime  level  with  the  beasts  of  the 
field,  there  might  be  a  hope  for  Horace.  Hope  that  he 
would  rise  from  that  bestial  degradation  to  the  life  and 
the  doing  of  a  man.  But  otherwise,  elsewhere,  was 
there  a  hope  for  him  ?  that  he  would  emerge  ever  from  ' 
the  plane  of  this  present  ?  from  its  enervations,  and  mis- 
called refinements,  which  are  but  demoralizations  ? 
From  hungering  and  thirsting  after  the  crumbs  of  rich 
men's  tables,  from  the  worship  of  grandeur,  or  what  as- 
sumes the  name,  from  the  shadow  of  the  purple  and  fine 
linen  that  waves  through  perfumed  chambers,  would  he 


THE    USE    OF    OBSTACLES.  243 

ever  turn,  hopeless  of  good  from  them,  to  the  fresh  air 
of  heaven  and  communion  with  truth  ? 

It  would  seem  as  if  insanity  were  in  the  question  ? 
*  *  *  -»  *  * 

No  man  of  energy  can  give  himself  to  a  purpose,  good, 
bad,  or  indifferent,  and  long  be  conscious  of  obstacles. 
Barriers  to  be  leaped,  hedges,  ditches,  what  not,  marshes 
to  be  spanned  with  one  effort,  mountains  to  be  scaled,  but 
add  to  the  zest  with  which  the  accomplished  sportsman 
dashes  onward  in  pursuit  of  game. 

Impediments  come  in  good  time  to  prove  themselves 
the  helps  and  aids  of  striving  men.  They  quicken  the 
action  of  the  brain — the  faculties  become  more  powerful  to 
endure,  more  ready  to  devise,  more  swift  to  execute,  un- 
der the  ministry  or  discipline  of  obstacles.  They  serve, 
moreover,  in  another  way.  Though  they  appear  in  threat- 
ening form,  impassable,  disheartening,  the  daring  hand 
suddenly  transforms  them  from  hinderances  to  humblest 
servitude.  They  not  only  awaken  dormant,  uniniagined 
energies — they  themselves  are  made  to  serve. 

We  are  led  to  these  reflections  in  view  of  what  De 
Lisle  Layard's  course  has  been  hitherto,  not  in  considera- 
tion of  what  it  is  to  be.  He  seems  to  have  rid  himself 
of  obstacles  altogether,  with  the  rising  of  this  new  theme 
of  the  college  president.  On  this  day,  as  he  goes  from 
the  Hall,  he  is  thinking  in  the  same  direction  with  David 
Baldwin  and  his  father,  but  his  thought  outruns  theirs, 
and  is  freighted  with  weightier  consequences.  He  has 
observed  the  deep  impression  made  to-day  by  Stella 
Gammon's  beauty,  grace  and  spirit — this  girl  shall  serve 
him  yet. 

If  a  man  lives  in  the  world  who  is  her  father,  she  shall 
be  thrown  upon  him — nay,  she  shall  throw  herself  upon 
him,  in  the  haste  and  passion  of  a  heart  which  Aunt 


244  GETTING   ALONG. 

Judith  has  found  it  perfectly  impossible  to  comprehend 
or  govern  .  .  . 

If  there  is  any  love  of  the  beautiful  in  David  Baldwin's 
spirit — if  he  has  any  sense,  any  appreciation  of  the  fit- 
ness of  form  and  idea — if  he  has  an  eye  that  can  be  en- 
chanted, an  ear  that  can  be  caught,  a  soul  that  can  be 
saved — even  to  this  extent  does  De  Lisle  Layard  argue — 
that  man  shall  follow  him  into  the  Church  of  Rome,  and 
bring  back  Stella  with  him.  Poor  Aunt  Judith  shall  be  re- 
conciled ;  he,  the  priestly  Layard,  sees  a  fair  sky  above  him, 
a  smooth  path  before  him.  He  shall  not  need  to  plod  on 
in  obscurity — without  a  fear  he  may  resign  the  post  he 
holds — he  need  count  the  cost  no  longer. 

Clearly  he  perceives  how  it  will  be  with  David  Bald- 
win. He  will  be  interested  presently  in  the  life  of 
another,  as  they  are  interested,  when  fairly  aroused,  who 
have  been  sceptical  in  all  their  modes  of  thought  where 
human  creatures  were  concerned;  he  will  look  presently, 
as  dreaming  poets  dare  to  do,  on  life,  and  love,  and  wo- 
man. His  brain  will  be  wholly  alive — that  rare  gener- 
osity and  chivalry  of  nature  which  has  so  long  been  hid- 
den, shall  come  forth.  Stella  shall  discover  him.  Not 
to  herself,  perhaps ;  it  may  possibly,  yet  hardly,  not  be 
that  this  will  follow,  but  the  rest  Layard  dares  rely  upon 
as  the  inevitable  result  of  the  cause  which  has  this  day 
operated.  At  least,  this  much  is  certain  :  one  more  liv- 
ing man  is  in  the  world — efficient,  powerful ;  and  that 
man  loves  De  Lisle  Layard.  This  much  he  eays  is 
true — he  has  ascertained  its  certainty. 

Assuredly,  to-morrow  Professor  Leighton's  name  shall 
be  talked  of  in  the  college — Miss  Mar  shall  hear  the 
name  of  David  Baldwin — and  the  heir  of  St.  John's  Hall 
shall  not  forget  that  Stella  Gammon  is  a  beauty,  living 
in  the  world,  bearing  a  woman's  heart  within  her  breast. 


THE    LETTER    CARRIER.  245 


XLI. 

LUCIA  had  risen  with  the  sun,  and  was  diligently  occu- 
pied with  her  drawing — for  she  must  somewhere  find  the 
time  to  make  amends  for  the  hours  of  the  morning  which 
she  intended  to  give  to  Rose — when  suddenly  she  dropped 
her  pencil,  and  began  a  distracting  investigation  of  recol- 
lections, which  put  Vane  even,  and  his  unlooked-for  de- 
parture, away  from  her  mind,  where  it  had  abode  all 
night,  and  thus  far  into  the  day.  But  all  this  ransacking 
of  memory  availed  not  in  the  least ;  whether  she  took  the 
drawing  Stella  gave  her  away  from  Stella's  room,  and  if 
so,  what  had  become  of  it,  was  precisely  the.  thing  about 
which  she  could  come  to  no  conclusion  whatever. 

But  she  was  still  endeavoring  to  do  so,  when  she  heard 
a  quick  foot-fall  in  the  quiet  street.  How  suddenly  she 
lifted  her  head  from  the  table,  on  which  it  was  bent  in 
the  midst  of  her  distraction  !  and  she  does  precisely  the 
thing  that  the  reader  anticipates,  extends  the  troubled 
head  beyond  the  window-sill,  and  looks  down  into  the 
street. 

He  is  standing  on  the  door-step — he  has  a  letter  in  his 
hand — it  is  Vane  ;  and  she  speaks  to  him. 

"  I  thought  you  were  gone,"  she  says — so  glad  she  is, 
seeing  that  he  is  not  gone.  He  hears,  and  answers : 

"  And  so  I  am.  I  ran  up  with  this  note  for  you;  but 
when  I  arrived,  I  could  not  tell  what  to  do  with  it.  I 
forgot  the  early  hour — shall  I  take  it  back  to  the  post  ? 
It  is  only  a  good-bye  to  you." 

The  head  was  withdrawn  without  replying,  and  instant- 
ly— it  seemed  the  work  of  magic — the  street-door  was 
unbolted.  Vane,  who  waited,  knowing  she  would  come, 
thrust  the  letter  into  Lucia's  hands  as  the  door  opened, 
and  said  hurriedly  : 


246  GETTING    ALONG. 

<:  Good-bye.  I  have  said  all  in  the  note.  I  shall  be 
too  late  if  I  stay  now.  I  did  not  think  to  see  you,  but  I 
aui  very  glad  that  it  happened  so — very  glad  indeed,  Lucia  " 

He  caught  her  hand,  and  was  gone.  But  she  had  the 
letter — she  had  seen  him.  With  this  rare  morning 
vision,  Lucia  went  back  to  her  chamber — with  his  last 
look  and  his  letter. 

"  DEAR.  LUCIA,"  said  the  letter  :  ':  I  was  so  disappoint- 
ed not  to  see  you  to-night ;  I  had  something  to  say  to 
you — at  the  very  least,  farewell.  I  felt  disappointed 
then,  but  now  I  find  that  there  is,  and  was,  a  great  deal 
more  in  my  mind  to  say  than  that  solitary  word.  It  is  a 
sad  word,  but  I  do  not  say  it  sadly.  Farewell !  how 
could  you  fare  any  otherwise  ?  If  I  had  spoken  it  then, 
I  should  have  said  very  little  beside;  and  so  I  am  glad 
you  were  away.-  I  may  never  see  you  again.  You  know 
not  how  often  I  have  said  that  to  myself;  and  yet  I  can 
add  with  the  poet,  '  'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 
than  never  to  have  loved  at  all !'.  We  have  been  true 
friends,  Lucia — have  we  not?  We  struck  hearts  over 
our  promises  to  help  one  another,  and  I  believe  in  my  soul 
that  we  have  kept  the  promise  sacred.  I  have,  at  least, 
nothing  but  thanks  to  offer  you — so  much  good  you  have 
done  me  !  I  believe  I  have  not  been  living  in  a  lowly  little 
room  over  a  work-shop  this  summer — not  down  here  in  the 
midst  of  confusion,  and  sultriness,  and  dust,  amongst 
men  of  trade  and  toil.  I  think  I  have  not  been  dining 
at  the  rather  shabby  table  of  a  fourth-rate  boarding- 
house.  I  have  been  travelling  about,  living  in  every 
sunny  land  where  beauty  lives,  from  the  land  of  the 
Parisian  to  that  of  the  Damascene.  I  have  seen  a  sky 
broader  than  stretches  over  the  desert,  and  constellations 
moving  in  magnificence,  undiscovered  by  the  most  famous 
of  all  the  astronomers. 


LIVING    ABROAD.  247 

'£J  have  walked  in  gardens  where  every  flower  grew  in 
more  than  common  grace,  and  blossomed  with  far  more 
than  ordinary  glory.  I  have  worked  under  the  best  sky- 
light for  an  artist;  the  best  models  have  been  around 
me.  I  have  grown  rich,  and  great,  and  lived  in  princely 
state,  doing  all  honor,  Lucia,  to  my  own  renown.  Do  not 
look  so  surprised.  I  will  tell  you  how  all  this  has  happened, 
and  you  will  see  how  true  it  is — that  this  is  not  fancy,  nor 
nonsense.  I  have  found  in  my  heart  all  this  scenery  and 
splendor,  and  I  never  should  have  seen  it  but  for  you. 
Have  you  not  helped  me,  then  ?  If  this  is  dreaming,  I 
would  not  exchange  the  faculty  for  the  world  of  realities. 
You  have  made  impossible  things  possible  to  me.  You 
have  shown  me  the  path  by  which  I  might  tread,  with  a 
man's  stride,  into  this  realm.  I  have  gone  into  it,  and  did 
not  find  the  dominion  desolate  and  lonely  with  all  its 
beauty  I  fouijd  life  there.  Your  thoughts  and  my 
thoughts  have  peopled  the  solitudes ;  the  temples  had 
more  graceful  spires,  because  we  looked  at  them  together ; 
and  they  cleft  the  heavens.  We  were  the  friends  of  the 
architects ;  they  told  us  more  about  their  work  than  they 
have  told  others.  The  gardens  had  fountains — the  water 
that  flashed  in  the  sun  was  purer,  it  sparkled  more  brightly 
than  any  I  have  seen  elsewhere — they  seemed  like  the 
spontaneous  uplifting  of  the  river  of  life  .  .  .  the  trees 
were  laden  with  flowers  of  tropical  regions — and  the  birds 
swept  through  the  air  as  if  descending  from  above,  not 
soaring  from  beneath.  You  have  given  me  this  region, 
a  fairy-land  I  had  before  I  knew  you,  but  not  a  holy  land. 
No  thoughts,  only  vague  longings ;  no  thoughts,  pure  as 
angels,  walked  in  that  fairy-land — no  life  was  there — no- 
thing vital  was  in  the  earth  or  sky,  or  in  any  of  the  glory 
with  which  I  delighted  to  furnish  it.  You  have  made  life 
harmonious — and  self-consciousness  a  delight  for  me  .  .  . 
Have  I  done  anything  in  turn  for  you  who  have  wrought 


248  GETTING    ALONG. 

such  precious  results  for  me  out  of  the  raw  materials  you 
found?"  .  .  .  Had  he,  reader,  do  you  think?  See — the 
sun  is  shining  in  the  room — in  broad  relief  you  behold  the 
youthful  figure — has  he  done  anything  for  her  ?  But  me- 
thinks  this  sunny  creature  should  not  weep  .  .  .  nay 
she  is  not  weeping ;  those  bright  tears  have  fallen,  have 
gathered  but  slowly — she  herself  is  not  aware  of  them. 
"  But,  Lucia,  this  seems  almost  idle  talk.  Idle  it  would 
be  had  I  nothing  more  to  say — had  I  no  deeper  obligation 
to  confess.  I  went  into  the  woods  to-day.  William, 
no  doubt,  has  told  you  that  we  met  there.  I  was  trou- 
bled. Did  you  know  it  ?  I  had  heard  evil  news  from 
the  house  where  I  was  born ;  Professor  Layard  told  me 
that  my  father  was  very  ill — and  dangerously  so.  My 
first  thought  ...  I  will  tell  it  you,  that  you  may  see 
and  believe  what  you  have  done — my  first  thought  was 
hard  and  evil.  Is  it  anything  to  me,  I  said,  that  my  fa- 
ther is  dying  ?  Has  be  not,  been  dead  to  me  these  many 
years?  I  know  I  am  his  only  son — his  only  living  child, 
but  he  sent  me  adrift,  and  I  will  not  float  back  again  .  .  . 
And  many  other  thoughts  I  had,  and  many  arguments 
about  it  ...  It  troubled  me  so  much  that  I  could  not 
endure  my  work-room,  nor  the  sound  of  the  city.  I  could 
not  endure  anything  near  me — I  wanted  to  go  away  alone, 
and  be  rid  of  myself.  jBut  myself  went  with  me  into  the 
woods.  There  was  no  enchantment,  there  no  holy-land — 
nothing  but  dead  fallen  leaves,  and  a  brook  somewhat  too 
noisy,  and  some  chattering  birds,  and  nut-hunting  sijuir- 
rela.  I  know  I  could  have  built  palaces  of  less  rich  ma- 
terial, and  made  magnificent  tapestries  of  inferior  trees, 
and  a  grayer  sky ;  but  I  had  no  skill — to-day  there  were 
no  fairies,  no  princesses  in  the  woods — I  only  heard  one 
sound,  and  sometimes  it  had  the  tone  of  my  mother's, 
and  sometimes  the  tone  of  your  voice — and  it  said  to  me,) 
Your  father  is  old,  and  poor,  and  dying — old,  poor,  dv- 


LUCIA'S    FOREIGN    TRAVEL.  249 

ing — and  I  remembered  that  my  mother  had  loved  him. 
The  words  rang  in  my  ear  with  a  changeless  monotony. 
I  could  not  forget  them — I  could  not  get  away  from  them. 
And  so  I  am  going.  And  it  is  you  that  send  me  !  Do 
you  wonder  still  ?  Have  I  not  seen  you  in  your  father's 
house  ?  Know  I  not  what  you  are  doing  there  ?  There 
is  something  more  beautiful  than  art,  and  you  have  shown 
it  me,  and  made  me  love  it — something  there  is,  dear 
Lucia,  and  you  have  taught  me  thus,  more  enticing  than 
Fame ;  and  I  know  that  you  have  pleaded  with  her  till 
she  has  called  and  claimed  me.  And  now  I  am  going,  as 
Abraham  did,  not  knowing  whither.  To  the  old  village, 
you  say — that  is  true.  And  not  able  to  show  to  the  peo- 
ple who  called  me  a  proud,  ungovernable,  high  handed 
boy,  any  great  result  of  my  going.  But  what  waits  for 
me  there — or  when  or  how  I  shall  come  again,  I  know 
not.  It  is  an  undiscovered  country — but  I  shall  return. 
If  I  come  back  to  work  at  the  old  trade  (for  my  father's 
comfort  is  what  I  must  look  after,  so  you  have  bidden 
me,  and  I  have  not  been  able  yet  to  lay  by  much  money), 
will  3rou  still  have  me  for  your  friend,  I  wonder  ?  or  will 
you  be  proud,  and  beyond  reach,  and  forgetful  by  that 
time  ?  You  cannot  make  me  believe  that — I  hardly  think 
that  you  would  try ;  you  are  so  good  and  true,  it  will  not 
be  pleasant  for  you  to  study  to  be  false  and  evil.  I  go 
sure  of  this,  you  '11  not  forget  your  friend. 

"  Certainly,  if  I  live,  I  shall  come  again,  and,  there- 
fore, I  only  say  farewell ;  and  yet,  assuredly,  how  is  this, 
Lucia  ?  I  do  not  leave  you  behind  me.  I  carry  my 
palace,  and  the  princess,  and  the  fairest  of  all  lands  with 
me ;  having  all  things,  even  all  things  in  the  thought  of 
you  .  .  .  Do  you  not  go  with  me  ? 

"  W.  VANE." 
11* 


250  GETTING    ALONG. 


XLII. 

LUCIA  had  but  entered  on  her  dream.  Rose  had  ended 
hers.  The  dream  of  Rose  began  in  selfish  recklessness, 
in  evil  passionateness,  in  wayward  vanity,  and  we  have 
seen  the  end ;  how  Lucia's  did  begin  we  know — but  its 
ending,  if  any  end  it  "have,  is  not  with  us,  or  here. 

But  never  fell  such  light  upon  her  paper,  as,  in  this  early 
morning,  while  she  goes  on  with  her  work.  Even  the  facts 
of  the  condition  of  poor  Rose  look  hopeful  to  her  now :  she 
knows  that  though  the  house  is  small  there  is  room  in 
it  for  her  sister;  and  sho  vows,  that  if  striving  with  the 
obdurate  will  of  others  can  effect  it,  Rose  shall  come 
home  again.  And  she  works  faster  and  faster,  and  the 
work  that  she  does  satisfies  her  ;  she  sings  over  it,  sketch- 
ing all  the  while  far  different  pictures  from  those  on 
which  her  hands  arc  employed,  and<\Vadsworth  Vane  is 
the  central  figure  of  them  all. 

If  she  has  done  so  much  for  him,  all  this  that  he  has 
said,  and  how  shall  she  doubt  it  ?  he  has  never  spoken  to 
her  but  from  the  depths  of  an  honest  and  a  good  heart 
— if  she  has  done  so  much  for  him,  what  has  he  not  done 
for  her  ?  What,  without  his  encouragement  and  criti- 
cism, would  she  have  been  ? — but  in  other,  and  nameless, 
and  countless  ways,  he  has  served  her ;  she  knows,  sees, 
feels  it,  and  it  is  the  joy  of  the  thought  that  the  debt  is 
not  all  hers,  that  he  has  written  this  letter  to  her,  that 
he  is  coming  again ;  it  is  this  joy  that  lightens  her 
spirit — that  calms  her  heart  even  while  it  exalts  her  iu 
beatitude,  and  she,  too,  waking,  dreams — and  floats  in  the 
sweet  dream  on  golden  wings  under  clouds  that  have 
their  "  silver  linings"  turned  all  inside  out,  above  a 
golden  sea.  (They  who  arc  happy  inwardly  can  see  no- 
thing of  darkness — wherever  their  eyes  rest  they  com- 


TUB    EXPRESS    MESSENGER.  251 

municatc  pervading  light ;  their  wishes  are  transformed 
into  easy  possibilities ;  the  energy  of  hope  becomes  the 
energy  of  act  by  a  most  natural  process.  For  true  hap- 
piness supposes  faith  as  well  as  joy — and  faith,  we  all 
know,  is  sufficient  to  move  mountains.) 

Therefore,  when  the  hour  which  to  herself  she  had  ap- 
pointed, came,  guarding  her  purpose  still  from  all  ob- 
servation, taking  counsel  only  by  her  own  holy  hope, 
Lucia  left  the  house,  and  bent  her  steps  towards  Rose. 

The  hour  approached  noon.  She  had  chosen  that 
hour,  supposing  that  Mortimer  Maurice  would  be  away 
at  that  time,  if  he  went  out  in  the  day,  and  it  was  her 
intention  to  discover  whether  he  had  gone  of  some  one 
of  the  lodgers  in  the  house. 

But  all  precaution,  all  effort  on  her  part  was,  as  we 
already  know,  useless,  vain.  There  was  no  Maurice  in 
the  world  henceforth,  at  least  for  Lucia's  fear.  She  had 
no  need  to  look  to  him  for  further  molestation,  annoy- 
ance, or  frustration  of  any  cause  in  which  she  might  en- 
gage. He  had  work  of  his  own  to-do. 

As  she  went  rapidly  down  the  street,  looking  neither 
to  the  right  nor  left,  making  her  way  less  by  sight  than  by 
instinct,  it  seemed,  a  heavy  hand  fell  on  her  shoulder — 
something  obstructed  her  passage  through  the  crowd  .  .  . 
Will  stood  for  a  second  fronting  her,  the  next  instant  he 
had  drawn  her  towards  the  wall  of  a  building  where  they 
were  beyond  the  rush  of  feet. 

"  Ybu  must  go  home,"  said  he,  in  a  hoarse  undertone, 
as  if.  fearful,  even  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion  of  the 
street,  of  being  overheard.  Lucia  looked  at  him — his  face 
was  ashy  pale,  his  eyes  fixed  wildly  on  her — he  gave  her 
no  time  to  question. 

"  You  must  go  home  and  tell  father — " 

':  Quick,  Will !  what  is  it  ?"  she  exclaimed  aloud,  in 
fear. 


252  GETTING    ALONG. 

"  That  Rose  is  dead — and  I  am  going  to  bring  her 
home." 

Instead  of  speaking,  or  flying  at  his  bidding,  Lucia 
leaned  against  the  brick  wall,  and  looked  more  like  one 
at  death's  door,  than  a  fit  messenger  for  an  errand  like 
this. 

"  Fool  !"  exclaimed  Will.  "  I  might  have  known 
better.  What  shall  I  do  with  you  ?  Lucia — Lucia  !  you 
must  bear  up." 

"  Wait  ...  I  will  go  ...  in  a  minute  ...  It  was 
so  sudden,  Will." 

Will  seemed  now  to  come  to  his  senses,  and  he 
beckoned  to  a  cabman  driving  by,  and  leading  Lucia — 
he  would  have  carried  her,  but  she  seemed  now  strength- 
ened wonderfully,  he  said  : 

"  Can  you  do  it  if  I  go  back — can  you  tell  father — 
and  be  ready  when  we  come  ?" 

There  was  no  need  to  ask — scarcely  a  need  that  she 
should  answer  Will,  who  saw  this  sudden  change  in  her. 
The  shock  was  borne  and  overcome  ;  with  a  steady  step 
Lucia  went  forward,  gave  her  address  to  the  driver,  bid- 
ding him  make  all  speed  ;  the  man  obeyed  her. 

In  the  same  place  where  she  had  left  him  when  she 
went  from  the  house  but  now,  her  father  sits  toiling  with 
his  pen.  He  does  not  look  up  when  Lucia  enters;  not 
that  he  fails  to  hear  her,  but  he  recognizes  the  step,  and 
when  she  went  away  they  had  exchanged  a  little  pleasant 
talk — he  has  no  more  time  now  to  spare. 

But  his  daughter  comes  up  to  his  table,  he  must  find 
time  to  spare ;  he  must  bring  his  labor  to  an  end  for  to- 
day :  her  hand  falls  less  heavily  upon  his  shoulder,  she 
arrests  him  more  gently  than  she  was  arrested  in  the 
street  by  Will.  Mr.  Tree  looks  up  surprised  at  Lucia 
on  account  of  the  interruption  :  his  daughter  and  him- 
self are  on  (excellent  terms,jbut  this,  really  is,  to  say  the 


SUDDEN    DEATH.  253 

least,  rather  a  novel  experiment  on  her  part,  and  he  is 
evidently  not  quite  decided  as  to  how  he  shall  take  the 
familiarity. 

No  time  is  given  for  consideration  of  the  point.  With 
terrible  suddenness,  say  it  in  what  form  she  will, 
with  what  caution  and  tenderness,  the  truth  is  still  the 
truth,  the  fact  the  fact,  with  terrible  suddenness  it  conies 
to  him — his  oldest  child  is  dead — his  first-born  child  is 
dead.  And  she  is  coming  home — they  are  even  now  on 
the  way,  bringing  her. 

She  cannot  tell  him  how  Rose  died  ;  but  last  night 
she  saw  her,  Lucia  says  :  she  tells  him  boldly,  with  no 
sign  of  hesitation ;  she  was  going  to  her  this  morning, 
when  Will  sent  her  back  again  with  this  intelligence.  It 
must  have  been  a  sudden  death,  he  thinks  and  says,  as  he 
stands  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  looks  about  him, 
stunned  by  what  he  has  heard — striving  in  vain  to  collect 
himself,  while  Lucia  draws  out  his  writing-table,  and 
gathers  up  the  papers,  and  removes  them  to  an  inner 
room,  and  is  thoughtful  to  lay  them  away  in  a  safe  place. 
/The  wrinkles  in  the  old  man's  face,  which  Lucia  said 
were  disappearing  one  by  one,  are  all  back  again,  and 
lie  deeper  in  their  furrows  than  before ;  he  stands  droop- 
ing, and  pale,  and  inefficient,  unequal  to  the  emergency, 
watchful  of  Lucia's  every  movement,  and  knowing  in  his 
heart  that  an  angel  is  with  him  in  the  room — an  angel 
too  that  ministers  to  hirnj  But  it  is  nevertheless 
Rose  who  is  dead,  his  firsf-born  child — his  unfortunate 
Rose  ...  he  remembers  that  he  named  her ;  that  of 
all  names  borne  by  women  he  had  chosen  that,  one  of 
the  proudest,  as  the  best  for  her.  This  thought  runs 
through  his  mind,  drawing  after  it  a  crowd  of  recollec- 
tions— the  bitter  are  weightier,  more  numerous,  than  the 
sweet ;  but  somehow,  it  may  be  that  he  has  grown  too 
weak,  and  old,  and  foolish,  to  bear  a  stern  front  now,  as 


254  GETTING   ALONG. 

well  as  a  heavy  heart,  he  cannot  bear  up  in  wrath,  or  in 
the  callousness  of  pride  ;  he  is  broken — his  tears  fall  as 
rain  bursting  from  a  thunder-cloud,  and  he  rushes  away 
when  the  sound  of  many  feet  comes  up  the  street,  leav- 
ing Lucia  waiting  for  their  approach,  alone. 

But  he  goes  not  to  comfort  his  wife — he  does  not  re- 
member— no  one  in  this  house  remembers  it — that  she  is 
the  mother  of  the  dead. 

Does  she  remember  it  ?  She  is  lying  on  her  bed  sip- 
ping the  coffee,  partaking  the  delicate  food  Lucia  pre- 
pared for  her  before  she  went  into  the  street,  for  this  is 
her  hour  of  breakfast — when  the  noise  of  those  many  feet 
falls  on  her  ear ;  drawing  aside  her  curtain  she  looks  out, 
and  is  astonished  at  the  crowd.  It  is  strange  that  they 
should  stop  here,  directly  before  her  door;  what  can 
impede  their  progress  ?  But  they  are  bearing  something : 
she  looks  out  with  a  deeper  curiosity,  the  people  are  so 
quiet ;  it  is  a  crowd  without  disturbance,  a  singular  sight 
in  a  city  street.  She  leans  up  against  the  window — she 
sees  now  clearer — it  is  a  body  that  they  bear — and  what 
is  this  ?  Will  ?  can  it  be  he  who  seems  to  direct  all 
these  men?  .  .  .  They  move  on — the  relief  the  woman 
feels  as  they  do  so,  tells  her  how  great  her  anxiety  has 
been.  But  what  are  they  now  doing  ?  They  are  halting 
again — the  bearers  have  but  changed  their  position,  they 
surely  cannot — oh,  what  is  this  !  again  they  are  mov- 
ing forward,  but  not  beyond,  they  are  entering  within  the 
house  ! 

From  the  window  she  turns  away.  God  pity  her  !  she 
has  but  herself  to  rely  on  in  a  struggle  and  time  like 
this  !  She  stands  in  her  room  and  listens — listens — 
listens.  That  is  Lucia's  voice  .  .  .  That  is  Will  now 
speaking  .  .  .  how  they  walk  about  in  the  little  room 
below  !  .  .  .  now  the  crowd  is  going  away  ...  it  is  still 
in  the  house  as  death.  As  Death  !  Will  no  one  come 


SHE    HAS    HERSELF  !  255 

and  help  her  ?     Who  can  help  her  ?  what  can  man  or 
woman  do  for  her  ? 

Why,  they  can  lift  the  fallen  body  from  the  floor  where 
it  has  fallen  .  .  .  they  can  bring  aromatic  vinegar,  and 
every  other  restorative  known  of  the  healing  art ;  they 
can  rub  the  cold  limbs  till  the  blood  runs  freely  in  its 
courses,  and  the  eyes  open,  and  the  heart  beats  evenly, 
keeping  time  to  the  tune  of  her  life  .  .  .  but  who  shall 
chase  away  the  terror  that  has  come  to  madden  the  brain, 
that  has  cheated  itself  of  life  in  its  dread,  and  its  love, 
and  its  fear  of  shadows  ?  Who  for  her  shall  now  smooth 
the  pillow,  and  arrange  the  bed,  adorn  the  hair,  and 
make  the  person  comely  ?  She  robbed  herself  of  life — 
who  can  dare  to  think  of  this  maniacal  substitution  ?  of 
the  kingdom  into  which,  from  the  self-government  of  sloth 
and  selfishness,  she  comes  as  a  servant  and  minister  ?  so 
terribly  active  now,  she  who  has  been  all  these  years  so 
passive,  so  monstrously  passive.  She,  too,  has  sometimes 
talked  of  a  divorce — and  now  she  has  it — and  what  has 
she  beside  ?  Reader,  she  has,  Herself  ...  Is  it  not  in- 
evitable that  we  should  all,  sooner  or  later,  come  into  pos- 
session of  the  good  we  most  resolutely  crave  and  seek  ? 
Did  this  woman  ever,  think  you,  know  what  it  was  she 
sought  ?  and  when  she  found,  dost  think  that  she  was 
satisfied  ?  For  that  self  unto  which  she  was  given,  was 
Hell! 

XLIII. 

IN  the  public  parlor  of  the  convent,  where  all  guests 
are  received,  two  women,  the  nun  and  Miss  Mar,  are  talk- 
ing over  a  very  private  affair  together. 

The  superior  and  two  or  three  persons  beside  are  also 
there,  and  the  sound  of  other  voices,  and  the  presence  of 
those  other  persons,  are  a  relief  to  Aunt  Judith,  who  looks 


256  GETTING    ALONG. 

anxious  and  agitated,  and  who  would  be  embarrassed  if 
she  were  alone  with  the  nun. 

Theresa  has  greatly  the  advantage,  for  she  perceives 
that  Miss  Mar  is  even  now  in  doubt  as  to  whether  she  is 
quite  right  in  looking  on  herself  as  wronged  and  injured 
by  the  nun.  The  good  woman  is  full  of  distress,  and 
perplexity,  and  consternation.  She  is  no  longer  in  doubt 
as  to  how  things  go  spiritually  in  the  mind  of  Stella ;  that 
heretical  young  woman  appears  before  her  mind  now  rid 
of  all  the  delusions  which  Aunt  Judith  has  contrived  to 
fasten  upon  her  in  the  fondness  and  persistence  of  her 
hope. 

The  rosary  and  crucifix  hang  on  the  wall  in  Stella's 
chamber  still — the  table  with  the  sacred  books  of  the 
Church  still  stands  beneath  them  ;  Aunt  Judith  saw  them 
there  this  very  morning.  Stella  has  done  nothing  violent 
in  the  way  of  repudiation  :  has  said  nothing  cruel,  or 
sharp,  or  bitter,  or  blasphemous;  Miss  Mar  cannot  recall 
a  solitary  word,  for  she  as  well  as  Stella  has  carefully 
avoided  the  subject  of  the  Church  these  many  days ;  but 
the  belief  has  been  growing,  strengthening,  daily,  that  the 
Church  has  lost  a  daughter.  She  refrains  from  asking 
the  dreadful  question  outright  of  her  who  alone  could 
answer  it;  she  instead  groans  out  her  fear  in  Layard's 
hearing,  confesses  to  Father  Francis,  and  comes  now,  in 
the  forlornness  of  her  hope,  to  the  nun,  Theresa. 

She  calls  to  mind  the  teacher's  influence,  the  hold  that 
she  has  ever  had  on  Stella's  affections,  and  in  her  trouble 
is  disposed  to  throw  the  blame  of  Stella's  recreancy  even 
upon  her.  Why  has  she  allowed  it,  she  living  in  the 
Church  and  for  it,  why  has  she  permitted  her  pupil  to  go 
go  far  astray  ? 

Miss  Mar  has  vexed  herself  thinking  of  this  point  until 
she  could  no  longer  endure  her  thoughts,  and  she  has 
come  now  in  person  to  Theresa  to  make  her  complaint. 


THE  GUARDIAN'S  SETTLEMENT.  257 

or  at  least  her  investigation  .  .  .  for  complaint  it  did  not 
seem  quite  possible  for  her  to  make  when  she  came  into 
actual  contact  with  the  nun.  Not,  at  least,  till  she  had 
forgotten  herself,  and  was  carried  away  by  her  subject ; 
not  till,  in  view  of  the  magnitude  of  Stella's  offending 
and  danger,  she  lost  all  sense  of  the  composure,  the  grand 
quiet  of  the  woman  with  whom  she  spoke.  Then  it  was 
that  she  said,  in  the  height  of  her  poor  spiritual  pride, 
for  the  nun's  tranquillity  outraged  her  sense  of  duty  to  the 
Church : 

''  Weak  as  I  am,  it  has  been  given  me  to  do  great 
things  for  another.  There  is  De  Lisle  Layard  ready  to 
come  into  the  Church  to  day,  and  to  sacrifice  all  his  pros- 
pects to  her  interest,  out  of  love  for  her.  So  powerful  is 
the  Church  she  needs  but  the  faithful  service  of  her  chil- 
dren, and  even  the  weakest  can  do  mighty  things  for  her." 

"  But  then,"  said  the  nun,  "  you  do  not  consider,  Miss 
Mar,  you  implicate  yourself  saying  that.  I  do  not  deny 
the  truth  you  advance,  but  your  application  of  it.  If  so 
much  power  was  in  your  hands,  the  blame  of  Stella's  de- 
reliction falls  upon  yourself," 

Miss  Mar  did  not  immediately  answer;  she  had  to  col- 
lect herself,  to  acquire  a  little  additional  courage  before 
she  said : 

"  It  was  not  given  me,  but  you.  I  had  not  the  influ- 
ence over  her  that  you  had.  De  Lisle  is  my  witness  that 
I  have  not  been  unfaithful  to  my  holy  mother,  but  I  could 
do  nothing  with  her." 

"  And  I  could  not !"  said  the  nun. 

The  tone  in  which  she  said  it,  so  openly,  and,  so  it 
seemed  to  Aunt  Judith,  so  carelessly,  did  not  appease 
the  listener. 

"  I  think  you  could,"  she  said. 

'  Pardon  me,  sister,  you  should  not  think  at  all  about 
it,"  responded  the  nun. 


258  GETTING    ALONG. 

But  Miss  Mar  did  not  receive  the  rebuke.  The  nun's 
words  and  manner  slew  outright  what  lingering  hope  she 
had,  that  Stella  was  but  wayward,  that  at  heart  she  still 
was  true  to  her  childhood's  faith. 

"  I  ought  to  think,"  she  said,  hastily.  "  I  am  bound 
to  think.  I  have  brought  her  up,  a  poor  foundling — the 
Church  gave  her  to  me,  and  I  feel  some  responsibility. 
I  ought  now  to  be  able  to  give  her  back  to  the  Church  in 
one  way  or  another.  I  sent  her  here  to  school,  her  teacher 
obtained  the  strongest  hold  on  her  affections;  was  herself 
in  the  Church,  what  had  I  a  right  to  expect — a  heretic  ? 
Even  if  she  did  not  choose  to  become  a  sister  of  charity, 
which  I  was  not  at  all  desirous  that  she  should  be,  though 
I  would  have  offered  no  obstacle  in  her  way;  if  she  would 
only  take  her  proper  place  elsewhere  I  should  be  satis- 
fied ;  if  she  would  appear  in  society  and  exhibit  there  the 
beauty  and  holiness  of  the  Church,  I  would  be  glad  ;  if 
she  married  I  would  provide  for  her — she  is  my  child  :  I 
have  always  looked  upon  her  so.  But  what  have  I  nurs- 
ed ?  a  viper  in  my  bosom — she  stings  me  !" 

"  Poor  Stella  !"  sighed  the  nun,  when  Aunt  Judith,  in 
much  agitation,  ceased  speaking.  "  You  are  cruel,  Miss 
Mar." 

"  I  have  suffered  more  than  I  can  inflict,"  she  replied, 
quickly.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  you  might  understand  it," 
she  continued,  with  more  deference.  "  You  know  in 
your  own  heart,  what  I  feel."  She  paused  ;  the  nun  was 
silent.  Miss  Mar  looked  at  her,  and  saw  that  her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears,  but  the  calm  face  betrayed  in  no  other 
way  the  emotion  to  which  Miss  Mar's  words  had  given 
rise.  All  the  good  woman's  wrath  passed  away  before 
those  silent  tears ;  for  a  moment  she  could  not  speak, 
but  soon  she  went  on  again.  "  Forgive  me — you  do  ap- 
preciate my  distress,"  she  said.  "  I  have  not  told  you 
all — I  am  in  deadly  fear  of  Mr.  Falcon."  The  nun  bent 


AUNT  JUDITH'S  ARGUMENT.  259 

forward  and  listened  more  intently ;  and,  beguiled  by  the 
tears  she  had  seen  too  far  to  be  easily  roused  to  any  new 
suspicion,  too  much  rejoicing  in  the  belief  that  she  had 
found  sympathy  in  her  trouble  at  last,  she  did  not  see 
that  an  inward  smile  had  smoothed  away  the  trouble  in 
the  spirit  of  the  nun.  "  I  think  that  you  will  say  there 
is  not  a  young  lady  in  St.  John's  that  will  compare  for 
beauty,  and  grace,  and  dignity,  with  my  Stella — our 
Stella,"  she  corrected  herself;  and  she  read  a  decided 
assent  in  the  smile  that  half  revealed  itself  in  the  face 
of  her  to  whom  she  appealed.  "  She  is  equal  to  any 
place  ;  and,  I  may  confide  it  to  you,  De  Lisle  tells  me 
that  Mr.  David  Baldwin  has  quite  lost  his  heart  on  her 
account.  I  confess  I  am  ambitious  for  her — I  want  her 
to  do  well ;  there  is  nothing  in  the  way.  Why  should 
she  throw  herself  away  on  a  man  like  this  Mr.  Falcon  ? 
He  is  twenty  years  older  than  she — a  good  man -no  doubt ; 
but  a  heretic,  and  poor.  You  say  Mr.  Baldwin  is  a  her- 
etic also,  and  that  the  only  difference  between  the  two 
men  is,  that  one  is  young  and  rich,  and  the  other  old  and 
not  very  well-to-do.  That  is  differenoe  enough  for  a 
mother ;  I  assure  you  I  have  all  a  mother's  feelings  for 
Stella  Gammon — whose  child  is  she  if  not  mine  ?  But 
I  inform  you  there  are  other  points  of  difference  between 
the  two."  Here  Miss  Mar  drew  herself  up  and  paused 
a  moment,  looking  steadfastly  upon  her  listener,  who,  in 
spite  of  herself,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  becoming  a 
very  deepty-interested  listener. 

"  David  Baldwin  is  De  Lisle  Layard's  particular  friend. 
De  Lisle  says  that  a  great  change  is  about  to  take  place. 
De  Lisle  confides  in  me  as  a  son  in  his  mother,  and  I  in 
you  as  a  sister,  for  we  are  all  interested  together  in  Stel- 
la's welfare.  You  wish  her  best  good,  I  am  sure  ?" 

The  nun  answered  this  interrogative  with  an  almost 
impatient  gesture. 


260  GETTING    ALONG. 

"  Layard's  conversion  has  produced  a  good  effect — his 
friend  is  thinking  about  these  things.  Mr.  Baldwin  has 
many  excellent  points,  and  De  Lisle  informs  me  that  his 
talents  are  more  than  fair.  If  he  becomes  also  a  convert 
to  our  dear  mother,  and  confesses  his  allegiance  to  her, 
would  not  the  believing  husband  sanctify  the  wife  ?  and 
other  riches  of  this  vain  world  would  come  into  the  holy 
treasury !  Oh,  think  of  these  things — make  Stella  think 
of  them  !  I  cannot  endure  that  she  should  throw  herself 
away,  and  be  lost  on  that  Mr.  Falcon !  Do  think  what 
insane  folly  it  is  !  Don't  let  her  do  it !" 

The  nun's  head  bent  upon  her  breast  in  deep  thought- 
fulness.  Miss  Mar  followed  up  her  entreaties : 

"  Do  tell  me  that  you  '11  save  her  !" 

"  I  ?"  said  the  nun,  looking  up,  speaking  so  solemnly, 
so  doubtingly,  that  Aunt  Judith  hesitated,  even  in  the 
midst  of  the  importunate  pleading  she  intended  to  renew. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  Mr.  Falcon,  nothing  of  Mr.  Bald- 
win. I  know  not  what  I  could  or  should  say." 

Something  Aunt  Judith  saw  in  the  nun's  p;ile  face, 
something  she  heard  in  her  voice,  that  prevented  the 
words  she  was  about  to  utter.  She  was  afraid  to  speak 
them — she  seemed  to  see  herself  in  some  new  light  that 
startled  her.  Another  moment,  and  the  opportunity  for 
speaking  them  was  gone,  for  the  convent-bell  rang,  and 
the  nun  instantly  arose. 

"  I  must  go  to  my  pupils,"  she  said — and  nothing  of 
the  relief  she  felt  because  of  this  necessity  was  apparent 
in  her  countenance  or  voice;  taking  Miss  Mar's  hand  in 
parting,  she,  for  the  first  time,  sought  a  soothing  word  to 
speak;  "I  will  pray  the  Father  that  he  may  send  (lie 
Comforter  to  you,"  she  said,  softly,  and  glided  away. 

She  did  not  go  at  once  into  the  school-room,  but  first 
ascended  to  the  silence  of  her  cell.  But  unconscious  of 
a  purpose  when  she  arrived  there,  as  it  seemed,  for  she 


THE    DAILY    SACRIFICE.  261 

merely  entered  the  room,  gazed  round  upon  it,  for  a  mo- 
ment looked  out  on  the  busy  street,  up  into  heaven,  and 
towards  the  garden  where  the  dusty  trees  waved  in  the 
dusty  air,  and  then  descended  to  the  labor  of  the  morn- 
ing. If  any  change  there  was  in  her  since  her  previous 
descent,  when  summoned  to  receive  her  visitor,  it  was  such 
as  a  careless  glancing  eye  would  not  detect;  it  appeared 
in  a  deeper  serenity  and  a  loftier  spiritual  vision ;  as  one 
who  had  been  exalted  might  look  in  the  joy  of  satisfied 
faith. 

But  poor  Miss  Mar  went  home  to  find  Mr.  Falcon  and 
De  Lisle  Layard  waiting  in  her  parlor  ...  to  sit  down 
with  them  as  their  hostess,  and  find  herself  beguiled  away 
from  her  distresses  in  the  necessity  there  was  for  her  en- 
tertainment of  the  guests  in  the  absence  of  Stella,  who 
had  gone  to  comfort  Lucia ;  to  hearken,  wondering,  in  spite 
of  herself,  to  the'  speech  of  the  elder  man,  that  so  much 
good  should  have  come  out  of  Nazareth. 


XLIV. 

SUSAN  having  once  received  the  thought  that  Mr.  Fal- 
con had  brought  before  her,  that  with  her,  in  all  truth, 
the  life,  more  than  the  human  life,  even  the  mind  of 
Clarence,  was  intrusted,  answered  every  expectation  that 
he  had  formed — she  aroused  at  once  to  other  considera- 
tions than  those  of  her  own  sorrow  and  loss,  to  do  with 
vigilance  that  service  unto  which  she  had  been  called. 

There  was  but  one  thing  now  against  which  she  needed 
to  be  guarded ;  the  exhaustion  of  her  strength,  which  as 
yet  was,  bodily,  but  weakness.  Day  after  day  she  went 
into  the  library  with  Clarence  for  study  and  recitation — 
day  after  day  in  the  garden  and  the  park,  in  the  street — 
reading,  talking,  she  was  continually  with  him. 


262  GETTING    ALONG. 

Remarkable  to  witness  were  the  changes  through  which 
the  recovered  man  now  passed.  Susan's  name  was  less 
and  less  rarely  on  his  lips,  she  was  not  how  the  constant 
unvarying  burden  of  his  speech,  but  it  was  not  less  evi- 
dent that  all  his  thoughts  were  drifting  constantly  towards 
her;  that  she  was,  only  more  intelligibly,  now  the  cen- 
tre of  his  being;  that  his  life  was  lived  in  reference  to 
her. 

She  was  in  bonds  to  him — and  the  child  knew  and  felt 
it.  She  felt  his  gaze  that  ever  was  upon  her — she  was 
imprisoned — all  her  freedom  was  gone — the  sense  of  loss, 
the  longing  for  recovery  remained  alone. 

No  one  perceived  this — no  one  entered  into  the  feeling 
and  distress  of  the  child ;  no  one  suspected  anything  like 
a  possibility  of  it.  The  house  was  full  of  other  thoughts. 
Falcon  had  his  own — Isidore  had  hers — David  his — and 
each  found  his  absorbing;  however  surrounded  and  occu- 
pied by  outward  things,  they,  one  and  all  of  them,  had 
their  inner  and  unseen  world  to  look  after  and  govern. 

Ishmael  Baldwin  stood  nearest  to  Clarence  and  Susan, 
he  alone  held  them  in  constant  survey — and  he  had  no 
eye  for  seeing,  no  insight  for  detecting  aught  beyond  the 
surface  of  affairs.  He  knew  the  springs  of  his  son's  life 
were  in  the  life  of  Susan,  and  with  assurance,  and  im- 
patience too,  he  waited  —  only  because  Mr.  Falcon  per- 
sisted in  the  necessity  of  his  waiting — until  the  moment 
should  arrive  when  a  promise  or  an  oath  should  bind  the 
two  together,  beyond  possibility  of  separation,  at  least  in 
life. 

One  day,  in  view  of  a  confession  of  his  own  that  he  in- 
tended soon  to  make,  Falcon  said  to  Susan  : 

"  I  think  you  do  not  often  take  a  look  at  yourself — that 
is  what  I  want  you  to  do  this  morning.  Do  not  smile; 
I  shall  soon  have  no  right  to  speak  authoritatively  as  your 
teacher." 


SUSAN'S  CREATION.  263 

In  consternation  Susan  dropped  the  book  into  which 
she  was  looking.  What  could  he  meau  ? 

"  Not  that  I  mean  to  bring  a  mirror  in  which  you  can 
survey  yourself,"  said  Falcon,  hastily.  "  You  are  much 
changed  since  I  first  saw  you — you  are  quite  putting  on 
the  woman,  getting  tall  and  stately — but  that  is  not  it ;" 
he  paused  a  moment,  he  was  slightly  embarrassed  either 
by  Susan's  gaze,  or  by  what  he  had  yet  to  say  to  her,  or 
by  the  thought  of  something  he  did  not  intend  to  say  .  .  . 
"  But  I  want  you  to  see  what  you  are  doing,  nay,  what 
you  have  done.  Do  you  ever  think  of  Clarence1?"  he 
did  not  pause  for  her  to  make  reply — he  went  on  rapidly  ; 
he  chose  rather  not  to  interpret  the  expression  of  the  youth- 
ful and  ingenuous  countenance  before  him.  "  I  wanted 
you  to  study  with  him.  You  know,  but  perhaps  you 
have  not  thought  about  it,  how  closely  and  diligently  he 
has  studied — how  rapidly  he  has  acquired  knowledge — 
how  remarkable  his  progress  has  been — it  is  quite  as 
much  as  ever  you  can  do  to  keep  pace  with  him  .  .  . 
Has  he  ever  spoken  to  you  of  his  intentions  ?" 

There  were  two  ways  in  which  Susan  might  have 
answered  this  question;  Mr.  Falcon  had  preferred  to 
hear  another  answer  than  she  gave,  for  the  information 
contained  in  her  reply  was  of  a  secondary  importance  to 
him.  Of  course  he  knew  that  she  was  aware  already  of 
this  purpose  of  Clarence. 

"  He  is  going  to  study  medicine." 

t:  Yes.  You  remember  I  told  you  that  it  was  your 
place  to  make  a  man  of  him — you  have  accomplished 
that" 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Falcon,"  said  Susan  quickly,  shrinking 
back,  and  within  herself.  Would  they  never  have  done 
telling  her  these  things  1 

"  Yes — beyond  all  question.  You,  and  you  alone  .  .  . 
But  I  have  noticed  that  you  have  applied  yourself  of 


264  ,  GETTING   ALONG. 

late  quite  too  closely.  You  must  take  a  vacation.  I 
shall  soon  be  obliged  to  leave  the  Hall." 

"  But  you  are  coming  back  again,  Mr.  Falcon  ?"  asked 
Susan  in  eager  haste,  as  if  in  great  alarm. 

"  Not  to  teach  you  ..."  he  saw  how  her  face  fell 
with  that  announcement,  and  continued  soothingly,  at  the 
same  time  humorously,  "  why,  think  of  it,  Susan,  do  I 
look  like  a  fit  person  to  instruct  a  young  lady  in  the 
graces  of  civilized  life  ?  I  am  as  ignorant  as  a  barbarian 
in  respect  to  those  accomplishments  which  must  be  com- 
municated to  you,  in  some  mysterious  way  or  other,  I 
know  not  how.  I  could  lay  the  foundation  as  well,  per- 
haps, as  any  other  man,  but  for  a  beautiful  superstructure, 
some  more  skilful  workman  must  be  employed.  Very 
soon  Clarence  will  be  prepared  for  the  High  School,  and 
then  for  College,  and  so  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do,  you 
perceive.  You  would  not  have  me  remain  here  to  idle 
my  time  away,  I  am  sure." 

"  You  will  come  back  then  ?"  said  Susan,  drawing 
some  sort  of  consolation  from  his  words. 

"  Certainly.     I  shall  live  in  St.  John's." 

"  But  not  here,  not  in  the  Hall  ?" 

"  I  think  not,  Susan." 

A  long  pause  followed  the  utterance  of  these  tidings. 
Mr.  Falcon  spoke  first  to  break  it — he  liked  not  to  look 
at  Susan,  she  seemed  so  deeply  troubled — this  unuttered 
tribulation,  of  which  her  face  gave  evidence,  smote  his 
kind  heart. 

"  What  is  Susan  thinking  of;"'  said  he. 

"Nothing." 

"  And  has  she  not  a  word  to  say  to  me?" 

'•  No,  Mr.  Falcon." 

"  What !  when  I  am  going  away,  it  may  be  to  morrow." 

Susan  looked  at  him,  there  was  no  need  that  she  should 
epcak. 


A    DESPERATE    CONFLICT.  265 

"  I  aru  disappointed,  Susan."  This  lie  said,  because 
he  could  not  bear  her  silence — her  face  grew  paler  and 
paler,  she  breathed  like  one  on  the  point  of  suffocation. 
If  she  should  speak,  where  could  she  find  a  place  to  stop 
till  she  had  told  him  how  evil  a  thing  life  had  become  to 
her — that  if  he  went  away  she  must  go  too,  or  die  ? 
These  things  must  not  be  said — and  Susan  knew  that 
they  must  not  be — she  could  endure  more  easily  than 
speak  her  trouble ;  and  therefore,  when  he  said  that  he 
wasdisappointed,  she  merely  shook  her  head  in  a  beseech- 
ing way,  which  he  interpreted. 

':  Yes,  but  I  am  disappointed.  I  felt  grieved  that  I 
should  leave  you,  though  I  knew  I  was  not  really  leaving 
you,  and  I  expected  to  get  some  comfort  from  you — and 
here  you  compel  me  to  go  away  without  a  particle  Will 
you  not  speak  to  me  ?" 

Involuntarily  Falcon  arose  as  he  uttered  these  words. 
He  stepped  hastily  forward  towards  Susan,  so  strange  a 
struggle  was  that  he  saw  going  on  within  her.  She  was 
as  if  in  deadly  conflict  with  an  adversary  that  threatened 
to  triumph  in  her  speedy  and  utter  defeat. 

She  had  raised  herself  upright  from  the  drooping, 
bowed  position  in  which  she  listened  to  his  words,  her 
hands,  outspread  towards  him,  but  not,  as  he  for  an  in- 
stant supposed,  beseeching  help — waved  him  away  from 
her  as  he  approached,  and  he  stock  back  at  her  bidding. 
One  or  two  ineffectual  efforts  she  made  to  speak — again 
she  strove — and  then  loudly  exclaimed  : 

"  Mr.  Falcon,  I  am  very  sorry  that  you  should  go.'1 

He  sat  down  now  beside  her ;  he,  too,  was  deeply  agi- 
tated; not  the  word  she  had  spoken,  the  simple  regret, 
but  the  struggle  he  had  witnessed — and  the  shock,  the  rent, 
from  which  this  word  alone  came  forth,  for  a  moment 
overwhelmed  him.  But  presently  his  voice  came  to  him 
— many  words  he  spoke  If  any  one  could  soothe  that 

VOL.  II.  12 


2G6  GETTING   ALONG. 

nature,  after  such  a  struggle,  he  could  do  it ;  but,  com- 
prehending ill  the  nature  of  the  struggle — for  he  knew 
that  the  news  he  had  brought,  alone,  dissociated  from  all 
other  thoughts,  could  hardly  have  produced  an  effect, 
occasioned  a  convulsion  like  that — he  could  only  talk  in 
the  dark.  Yet  his  words  had  the  effect  he  was  striving 
to  produce,  or,  the  consciousness  of  self  conquest  in  her 
own  soul  brought  calm  after  the  storm  ;  and,  though  she 
could  not  think  with  any  force  or  clearness,  but  was  con- 
fused and  well-nigh  dumb  at  the  thought  of  his  remoVal, 
so  abiding  a  sense  of  protection  and  security  she  had  felt 
while  he  was  living  under  that  roof  with  her,  so  incredi- 
ble it  seemed  that  he  should  go  away  and  leave  her  to  her 
fate,  yet  Susan  sat  and  listened  quietly  to  him,  and  made 
no  pleading  that  he  should  remain — the  strength  for  op- 
position, conflict,  or  even  entreaty,  had  left  her.  She 
looked  out  on  life,  hopeless — folding  her  arms  upon  her 
breast — watching  the  advance  of  her  destiny,  unresisting 
and  silent. 

XLV. 

SUSAN  was  now  alone  in  the  library.  Mr.  Falcon  had 
gone  out,  and  left  her  smiling,  for  he  had  told  her  his 
great  secret;  and,  thinking  of  it,  rejoicing  in  it,«hc  quite 
forgot  all  things  beside.  He  would  take  her  down  with 
him  that  evening  to  John  street,  he  said.  Stella  should 
confirm  what  he  had  told. 

It  was  early  in  the  day,  wanting  yet  some  hours  till 
noon.  Mr.  Baldwin  had  come  in  from  his  morning  drive. 
He  returned  at  an  earlier  hour  than  he  was  wont — he  had 
cut  short  all  his  usual  morning  operations  that  day — for 
Mr.  Falcon,  last  night,  for  the  first  time,  agreed  with  him 
that  it  would  probably  be  a  wise  movement  now  to 
acquaint  Susan  with  the  hopes  of  Clarence  and  his  father. 


ISHMAEL'S    GI;  r.  267 

The  old  man,  on  his  return  home,  made  his  way  at 
once  into  the  library,  where  he  found  Susan  alone ;  and, 
in  his  own  way,  he  proceeded  to  lay  those  hopes  before 
her. 

"Susan,"  he  said,  "my  daughter;"  and  he  closed  the 
door  behind  him,  and  advanced  towards  the  centre  of  the 
room.  Susan's  face  was  turned  away  from  him,  and  her 
figure  half  hidden  by  the  high  back  and  obtruding  arm 
of  the  great  library  chair  in  which  she  sat;  but  he.  had 
caught  sight  of  her  mourning-dress,  and  with  the  same 
glance  perceived  that  she  was  alone.  As  he  spoke,  Su- 
san rose  from  the  chair.  He  did  not  understand  the 
movement — that  the  word  he  had  spoken  rung  in  the  ear 
the  knell  of  every  hope.  "  Sit  down,  sit  down,  Susy ;  I 
want  to  talk  with  you; — no,  no — I  '11  sit  here — take  your 
chair.  You  have  seen  Mr.  Falcon  since  breakfast,  eh  I 
haven't  you?  Yes!  so  I  thought.  Then  he  has  told 
you  that  he  has  given  Clarence  over  into  your  hands,  2iy 
daughter,  and  I  want  to  say  something  to  you  now — it 's 
my  turn  to  speak.  I  want  to  give  Clarence  into  your 
hands,  too ;  and  the  boy  is  willing.  Lord  bless  your 
soul,  Susan,  he  's  in  'em  now — don't  you  know  it  ?" 

Mr.  Baldwin  did  not  expect  an  answer  —  probably 
thought  that  the  occasion  did  not  quite  yet  demand  one. 
He  bent  forward  iii  his  chair,  with  his  elbows  resting  on 
the  table,  intently  gazing  at  the  child,  for  so  he  regarded 
her — and  as  his  child  especially.  He  continued  : 

"  I  was  a  thinking  of  this  thing  long  ago,  when  I  used 
to  visit  you  down  at  the  beech.  I  perceived  where  my 
great  consolation  was  to  come  from,  long  before  you  could 
have  known  anything  about  it.  You  've  done  a  splendid 
piece  of  work,  Susy,  and,  as  Mr.  Falcon  and  I  have  re- 
marked a  thousand  times  to  each  other,  it  is  just  such  a 
work  as  no  one  else  could  do.  It  would  be  a  strange 
thing  if  I  was  n't  glad  and  proud  to  call  you  my  daughter, 


268  GETTING    ALONG. 

and  you  '11  bear  me  witness,  Susan,  that  I  am  glad  and 
proud.  I  want  you  to  be  my  daughter  in  good  earnest. 
God  knows,  I  would  have  been  in  any  case.  I  was  your 
father's  friend  when  we  were  children,  and  have  been  ever 
since;  and  it  was  not  merely  the  thought  of  what  }-ou 
had  done  for  Clarence  that  made  me  feel  tender  towards 
3'ou.  If  there  hadn't  been  any  Clarence,  I  should  have 
brought  you  home  all  the  same.  But  I  am  not  going  to 
deny  that,  on  my  son's  account,  I  love  you  better  than  I 
might  have  done.  I  think  it's  very  likely,  but  we  won't 
argue  about  that.  It  may  seem  odd  to  you — young  folks 
don't  like  old  folks  to  be  doing  up  this  sort  of  business 
for  them,  but  I  am  a  straight-forward  man  myself,  and  I 
don't  know  but  one  way  of  doing  a  thing  that  must  be 
done  It 's  for  Clarence,  and  for  me,  and  for  all  of  us — " 
Here  Mr.  Baldwin  stopped  and  coughed  a  little,  and 
found  the  business  rather  more  difficult  to  despatch  than 
he  had  contemplated,  with  Susan  looking  at  him  so 
steadfastly,  never  for  an  instant  removing  her  eyes;  if 
she  had  made  the  slightest  gesture  of  arm,  or  foot,  or 
hand — if  she  had  looked  down  or  away,  or  done  anything 
beside  sit  like  an  image  carved  from  stone — he  could 
have  proceeded  with  still  less  circumlocution ;  as  it  was, 
he  now  came  out  with  words  abruptly  :  "  It 's  for  Clar- 
ence, I  say,  and  me,  and  all  of  us — he — he  loves  you, 
and  you  must  know  that  already.  It 's  no  news  to  you. 
If  he  loves  any  other  person  about  him,  it  is  on  your  ac- 
count— he  loved  no  one  till  you  came ;  and  now  you  see 
how  kind  he  is  to  all — how  thoughtful  he  is.  But  you 
are  the  one  yet.  We  do  not  doubt  that  you  love  him, 
too  .  .  .  perhaps  as  you  would  have  done  had  he  been  a 
brother  of  yours,  and  his  mother  was  dead.  He  has  had 
no  mother,  Susan,  and  Isidore  .  .  .  ahem — you  know  she 
has  not  had  the  extraordinary  faculty  that  you  have  shown 
for  getting  on  with  him,  and  leading  him.  If  his  mother 


THE    RECEPTION    IT    MET.  209 

had  lived,  she  would  have  done  for  him  what  you  have. 
But  she  would  have  been  his  mother — and  you  are  only, 
as  you  now  are — you  know,  Susan  ...  a  friend.  And 
•there  's  no  knowing  what  might  happen.  He  wants  you 
nearer  ...  he  wants  to  marry  you,  Susy." 

It  was  all  out !  Mr.  Baldwin  drew  himself  away  from 
the  table,  and  stood  up,  having  said  it,  and  turned  from 
Susan  and  began  to  walk  the  room. 

Susan  also  arose,  but  she  stood  still.  When  Mr. 
Baldwin,  having  reached  the  limit  of  the  room,  turned  on 
his  heel  and  approached  her  again,  she  spoke,  but  not  till 
he  had  come  very  near — so  near,  that  her  hand,  lifted, 
had  fallen  on  his  arm,  and  arrested  his  steps.  He  stood 
still  at  her  words  : 

"  I  cannot — I  cannot." 

He  did  not  read  "  I  will  not,"  in  that  voice ;  it  was 
entreaty,  not  resistance,  that  gave  to  the  words  their 
pathos. 

Mr.  Baldwin  had  not  anticipated  this;  the  only  diffi- 
culty for  which  he  had  looked  was  his  own  utterance;  it 
had  not  been  an  easy  thing  for  him  to  deliver  this  ad- 
dress; but  now,  his  part  performed,  he  was  hardly- pa- 
tient that  the  word  should  be  spoken  with  so  strange  a 
voice  in  his  ear. 

"  It  can't  be,"  he  said,  "  that  you  will  forsake  us 
now.  You  cannot  mean  to  desert  Clarence  ;  he  will  be 
ruined."  There  was  surprise  in  his  displeasure. 

<:  Oh,  no ;  I  know  he  will  not.  I  know  he  will  not. 
You  can  tell  him  that  it  is  foolish.  I  am  sure  you  can 
prove  it  is  so  to  him.  And  I — I  am  so  young." 

Mr.  Baldwin  smiled;  this  distress  was  unfeigned  he 
knew — unfeigned  on  Susan's  part,  as  unlooked-for  on 
his;  but  he  wilfully  mis  read  it.  It  was  the  confusion  of 
a  child  who  was  too  suddenly  called  to  look  upon  herself 
as  arrived  at  the  estate  of  woman — the  confusion  of  a 


270  GETTING  ALONG. 

girl  hearing  from  another  than  a  lover  such  words  as  he 
had  spoken.  He  became  patient  and  considerate  in  his 
language,  in  view  of  this,  and  more  fatherly  than  ever  in 
his  bearing. 

"  You  are  young,  I  know ;  you  must  yet  have  masters, 
and  learn  a  great  many  things  which  you  know  nothing 
about.  I  am  going  to  have  you  learn  music ;  your  voice 
is  sweeter  than  Isidore's,  and  we  must  have  some  one  to 
make  melody  in  the  Hall  when  she  is  gone.  And  I  am 
going  to  have  you  learn  to  paint  and  draw;  there's  a 
young  girl,  a  (friend  of  Miss  Gammon,  who  is  to  teach 
you — Lucia  Tree  her  name  is ;  and  you  are  to  go  to  the 
riding-school  next  month,  when  it  opens.  And,  besides, 
we  have  to  go  on  a  great  many  journeys  yet,  you  and  I 
together.  I  am  going  to  take  you — Mr.  Falcon  and  I 
were  talking  about  it  only  yesterday — I  am  going  to  take 
you  to  the  village  where  your  mother  lived  when  she  was 
young;  and  Mr.  Falcon  is  going  with  us,  and  we  shall 
visit  about  among  your  relatives.  Besides  all  that,  you 
are  to  help  me  to  plan  our  house  on  the  beach,  for  I  am 
going  to  build  one  down  there,  or  else  repair  the  old  one, 
so  that  we  can  spend  our  summers,  or  a  part  of  them 
there.  Getting  married !  why  you  are  not  to  think  of 
that  for  years  to  come ;  only  we  all  love  you  so  much, 
Susy,  we  want  to  make  sure  of  you.  I  am  thinking  of 
you  as  your  own  father  would — I  want  to  make  you 
happy." 

She  said  not  now,  "  I  cannot  " — she  said  not  anything. 
During  this  long  speech  she  had  been  saying  to  herself, 
"  It  makes  no  difference — it  makes  no  difference  at  all 
what  happens ;  oh,  if  he  would  only  stop  speaking !" 

But  Mr.  Baldwin  fancied,  while  he  drew  all  this  pros- 
pect of  future  years  and  pleasant  occupations  for  Susan, 
that  he  could  see  what  went  on  in  her  mind,  and  he  was 
satisfied.  So  satisfied  and  confident,  that,  as  if  to  make 


FLIGHT.  271 

the  whole  thing  even  more  clear  to  her,  as  if  to  show  her 
to  herself  as  free  and  fortunate  even  beyond  all  telling, 
he  said : 

"  I  am  sure,  Susy,  that  you  will  at  least  let  me  tell 
my  son  that  you  love  no  one  better  than  you  love  him." 

That  was  a  strange  look  to  corue  from  Susan's  eyes ; 
his  son  !  but  not  David  !  it  was  a  glance  that  almost 
made  even  Ishmael  suspicious — but  of  what  1  why,  of 
nothing  clearly,  he  made  answer  to  himself,  when  he 
rapidly  surveyed  the  suspicion,  or  the  place  that  it  had 
darkened  for  a  moment. 

"  I  may  tell  him  that  much,  may  I  ?"  he  repeated. 

She  must  answer  him ;  but  what  could  she  say  ?  she 
could  do  nothing  better  than  fly  away,  and  leave  Mr. 
Baldwin  to  think  anything  that  he  could  or  would.  Not 
what  he  would  think,  but  how  she  might  escape  the  ne- 
cessity of  speaking,  was  her  thought.  She  moved  for- 
ward to  the  door ;  but,  as  she  went,  her  steps  were  stay- 
ed, and  yet  the  old  man  had  not  stirred.  It  was  his 
voice  that  arrested  her. 

"  Why,  Susan,  you  will  not  leave  me  in  such  a  way  as 
that?  Come  back,  my  child;  come,  Susy,  speak  one 
good,  kind  word,  or  I  shall  think  it  is  not  you." 

"  Wait  till  to-morrow,  Mr.  Baldwin — do.  You  must 
wait,"  she  stayed  to  say. 

There  was  a  tone  in  that  urgent  voice  that  Ishmael 
could  not  resist,  but  neither  did  he  in  the  least  enter  into 
its  meaning.  He  let  her  have  her  way;  and,  a  few 
seconds  later,  had  he  searched  for  her  throughout  the 
house  or  grounds,  Ishmael  would  not  have  found  her. 


272  GETTING    ALONG. 


XLVI. 

IN  Leah  Chilton's  chamber  there  is  sleep  and  silence, 
and,  death  I  had  almost  said.  The  room  is  small,  and 
not  the  most  cheerful,  nor  the  most  comfortable  for  an 
invalid,  but  Leah  has  kept  it  since  the  approach  of  win- 
ter, going  into  the  rooms  below  but  rarely ;  she  has  grown 
so  feeble  since  the  leaves  fell  in  autumn. 

Since  that  time  she  has  been  much  alone — has  seen  no 
company — Horace  rarely  finds  a  leisure  evening  now,  and 
she  consequently  sees  but  little  of  him ;  and  the  banker 
who  lives  in  the  closed  house  in  the  Square,  spends  so 
much  time  in  the  drawing  room  with  her  mother,  who 
charitably  does  her  best  to  amuse  the  hours  that  hang  so 
heavy  on  the  hands  of  the  lonely  old  man,  that  Mrs.  Chil- 
ton  finds  herself  shut  out  in  a  great  degree  from  the  sick 
room  of  her  daughter. 

But  all  Leah's  wants,  save  those  of  love,  are  well  sup- 
plied. Mr.  Baldwin  is  mindful  of  her.  Mr.  Falcon  has 
sent  her  pleasant  books  to  read,  and  fresh  flowers  from 
the  Hall  conservatory  are  often  sent  by  Isidore  through 
Horace  for  his  sister.  Leah  is  content.  But  she  is  alone. 
Susan  Dillon  now  and  then  has  cheered  the  room  by  her 
presence ;  and  sad  though  the  presence  was,  it  was  still 
youth  and  life,  and  she  brought  with  her  an  out-door 
atmosphere. 

But  always  from  these  visits  Susan  bore  away  with  her 
far  more  than  she  had  taken  to  the  sick  and  dying  Leah. 
Lessons  richly  fraught  with  wisdom,  a  new  or  a  strength- 
ened capacity  of  patience,  and  a  more  clear-eyed  vision 
for  perception  of  the  good  gifts  bestowed  upon  her. 

She  has  come  again  into  this  chamber — up  without 
warning  or  hiuderancc.  And  to-day  the  frosty  air  has 
given  no  color  to  Susan's  cheek ;  she  has  come  in  with  not 


LIFE    INT    THE    PRESENCE    OF    DEATH.  273 

a  word  to  say,  and  yet,  to  throw  her  burden  on  that  wasted 
life,  that  being  racked  with  pain  that  lies  on  the  uncur- 
tained bed  !  For  Susan  is  desperate.  She  has  come  in 
haste  from  Mr.  Baldwin  in  the  library.  The  Hall  is  full 
of  enemies — she  has  come  here  for  a  friend  ...  So  she 
said  to  herself  as  she  hurried  through  the  street — so  she 
was  thinking  when  without  ceremony  she  entered  the 
house,  and  moved  on  straight  up  to  Leah's  room. 

But  she  has  time  to  rest  and  think  again  before  there 
is  a  listener  to  hear  her  trouble. 

She  does  sit  beside  the  bed  on  which  Leah  lies  sleep- 
ing. She  goes  apart  into  a  corner  where  Leah  will  not 
see  her,  when  she  first  awakens.  Not  only  does  she  nqw 
accuse  herself  for  coming  here  to  give  vent  to  her  com- 
plaining ;  the  glance  that  she  directed  to  the  bed  as  she 
went  in  was  followed  by  a  fearful  conviction — there  will 
soon  be  death  here,  and  no  Leah ;  for  to  Susan's  eyes  the 
face  had  never  looked  so  wan  and  lifeless,  and  yet  so  full 
of  pain  as  now. 

Noiselessly  she  threw  aside  her  hood  and  shawl,  and 
bowed  her  head  upon  her  knees,  and  lost  herself,  her  own 
grieved,  desperate  impulses  and  emotions,  while  listening 
to  the  labored  breath  of  Leah.  And  now  all  human 
trouble  stood  back  awed,  voiceless,  powerless  to  move,  or 
sway,  or  vex ;  and  the  ticking  clock  upon  the  mantel  siglied 
as  it  bore  on  the  burden  of  time  yet  longer  for  the  sleeper. 

That  silence  was  better  for  Susan  than  any  voice,  than 
any  sympathy  had  been.  It  brought  her  to  herself: — it 
compelled  her  to  lay  down  the  weapons  of  rebellion — it 
in  a  manner  soothed  her — for  presently  all  the  past  came 
up  and  inet  this  present,  and  the  meeting  of  the  clouds 
caused  a  heavy  rain  to  fall.  Without  restraint,  silently 
and  long,  she  wept — no  groan,  no  sob,  no  sigh  escaped 
her ;  she  gave  no  evidence  but  tears,  and  Leah  could  not 
waken  from  hearing  their  fall. 
12* 


274  GETTING    ALONG. 

At  last  the  sleeper  .stirred;  she  coughed  in  her  slum- 
ber, and  wakened.  In  an  instant  Susan's  head  uplifted, 
she  could  weep  no  longer : — in  that  silence  she  hardly 
dared  to  breathe  .  .  .  Leah  was  speaking.  Susan  bent 
forward  at  the  sound,  supposing  that  her  presence  there 
was  known  to  Leah.  Still  she  did  not  rise — and  tlie  voice 
had  not  called  her ;  it  only  murmured,  and  even  in  the 
murmur  there  was  exultation  : 

"Xo  more  fatigue,  no  more  alarms, 
Ko  cares  to  break  the  long  repose  .  .  ." 

And  Susan  hearing  this  looked  towards  the  bed — she 
could  not  see  her  friend ;  then  she  bent  forward  from  the 
foot-bench  on  which  she  was  seated ;  was  there  any  need 
of  her  ? 

Leah  had  half  risen,  or  was  struggling  to  rise,  but  could 
not;  she  sunk  back  on  her  pillows,  exhausted  even  with 
the  slight  effort  she  had  made,  and  the  feeble  cough  told 
how  much  even  that  effort  had  cost  her. 

Beholding  this,  Susan  went  swiftly  but  quietly  forward 
to  the  bedside — she  raised  Leah  in  her  arms,  as  she  had 
been  her  constant  nurse,  whose  place  was  there,  shook  up 
the  pillows,  and  said,  composedly : 

"  Have  n't  I  come  in  the  right  time  ?" 

Leah,  who  had  submitted  to  all  this  soothing  arrange- 
ment in  silence  and  quiet,  could  for  a  moment  only  express 
her  thanks  by  a  pleased  and  loving  smile. 

"  Sit  down  close  beside  me,  Susy ;  how  glad  I  am  to 
see  you.  How  did  you  happen  to  come  at  the  very  time 
when  I  wanted  you  so  much  ?" 

"  I  thought  you  would  expect  me,"  said  Susan,  stroking 
Leah's  wasted  hands,  and  drawing  nearer  to  the  bedside 
till  her  face  was  close  by  Leah's,  and  their  kiss  was  on 
each  other's  cheek. 

"  Have  you  been  here  long,  Susy  ?"  whispered  Leah. 


RECOVERY.  275 

"  While  you  were  sleeping  I  came,"  answered  Susan,  in 
the  same  suppressed  voice. 

"  And  what  has  troubled  you  so  much,  Susy,  that  you 
have  been  crying,  my  darling  ?  Not  for  me,  I  hope ;  it 
was  n't  for  me  that  you  cried  ?  .  .  .  Yet  I  almost  hope 
it  was,  because  I  could  tell  you  what  would  make  you 
happy,  and  glad  for  me  .  .  .  Was  it  for  me,  Susy  ?" 

"  Oh,  Leah,  you  are  so  very  ill.  I  did  not  think  you 
were  so  very  ill,"  burst  from  Susan's  lips,  and  fast  her 
tears  fell  now  without  control.  Now,  truly,  it  was  be- 
cause of  Leah  that  she  wept. 

"  But  I  shall  be  so  infinitely  jvell  very  soon,"  said 
Leah,  speaking  with  a  stronger  voice,  gently  smoothing 
the  hair  back  from  Susan's  temples  while  she  spoke. 
"  Don't  cry  darling,  I  shall  soon  be  so  well !" 

"  Oh,  will  you,  will  you,  Leah  ;  truly  1  is  it  so  ?" 

"  The  Great  Physician  says  so — would  I  not  be  foolish 
if  I  doubted  his  word  Susy  ]  Yes  !  I  shall  be  well  and 
strong  again  I  can  but  smile  thinking  of  it,  even  now, 
when  I  lie  here  so  helpless,  and  you  think  me  so  weak 
and  miserable." 

What  was  it  that  she  meant  ?  Leah  read  this  question 
in  the  face  of  Susan — saw  how  her  words  had  suspended 
the  falling  tears  — and  that  a  great  hope  and  a  great  fear 
were  in  conflict  in  the  heart  of  her  friend. 

"  Dear  Susy,"  she  said,  "  Heaven  will  not  seem  a 
strange  country  to  you  long,  so  many  of  your  dear  old 
friends  there  !  When  I  am  gone  you  will  know  where  I 
ran,  aud  you  will  know,  surely,  that  I  am  well.  Look  up 
at  me  !  be  strong  !" 

Susan  had  buried  her  face  in  the  bed-clothes,  and  no 
longer  strove  to  control  her  grief  when  it  had  received 
this  dreadful  warrant;  and  yet,  at  Leah's  bidding,  she 
looked  up  ...  and  fain  would  she  be  strong. 

"  You  do  not  understand  it  ...  I  am  not  going  to  die." 


276  t,  KITING    A1.U.VU. 

Susan  clashed  the  bauds  outstretched  towards  her, 
eagerly  she  listened  ;  what  was  this  great  mystery  ?  The 
tender  voice  of  Leah  went  on  to  unfold  it. 

"(This  is  worn  out — this  body  that  you  have  called 
nie — it  aches,  there  's  nothing  left  of  it;  it  is  so  tired  and 
Avorthless  too — but  I  am  strong.  I  can  think  even 
faster  than  you  can.  I  shall  not  be  bound  to  this  bed 
long ;  I  shall  be  free,  and  young,  and  strong  again.  Are 
you  not  glad  to  hear  that,  Susy  ?  come  nearer  to  me.  I 
have  such  blessed  thoughts — such  happy  thoughts.  I 
wish  that  you  would  share  them  with  me.  Why  not, 
darling  ?  You  must  not  think,  though,  Susy,  that  it  is 
because  I  am  lying  here  and  can  do  nothing,  that  I  say 
it.  I  thought  it  and  believed  it  long  before,  £nd  it 
made  me  happy  then,  when  I  was  good  for  something  in 
the  house. 

"  What,  Leah  ?  what  is  it  ?"  began  Susan  eagerly,  but 
she  added  sadly,  "  it  made  you  happy — but  I — I  am 
different." 

"  But  you  are  a  human  being,  Susy.  Now  listen,  for 
I  will  tell  you  .  .  .  Don't  be  thinking  of  yourself — 
you  are  nothing.  God  is  all  in  all.  Let  him  do  what 
he  sees  fit  with  you — and  do  not  stand  out  against  him." 

"  I  cannot  understand  you  .  .  .  Leah  !  I  wish  I  might 
lie  down  there  in  your  place  .  .  .  but  no  !  I  would  not 
have  you  get  up  and  take  mine." 

"  What  is  it.  Susy  ?     What  troubles  you,  darling  ?" 

"  Nothing  .  .  .  but  I  am  so  tired  ...  it  makes  no 
difference  .  .  .  Don't  mind  me.  But,  Leah,  I  am  glad 
for  you." 

Gently  the  wasted  arm  of  the  dying  girl  enfolded  her 
friend,  gently  she  drew  the  troubled  young  being  towards 
her,  cheerily  the  faint  voice  strove  to  speak. 

"  Yes  !  be  glad  for  me — and  for  yourself  too,  Susy. 
Oh,  it  is  a  grand  thing  to  live,,  Let  not  your  lie-art  be 


THE    MATERNAL    WATC5I.  277 

troubled.  Doth  not  the  Lor4  behold?  Who  art  thou, 
dear  child,  that  art  afraid  of  mortals  who  shall  die.  and 
forgettest  the  Lord,  tliy  Maker  ?  Oh,  be  sure  our  Father 
in  Heaven  is  strong  enough  to  give  you  all  the  strength 
you  need,  if  you  only  trust  him.  It  seems  so  strange 
that  we  should  be  so  cowardly.  Come  !  promise  me  that 
you  will  be  strong — strong  in  the  Lord,  and — " 

Leah  was  here  interrupted  in  the  midst  of  her  injunc- 
tion by  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Chilton. 

It  was  no  place  for  her — and  no  hour.  And  some 
sense  of  this  fact  the  mother  seemed  to  have,  when  she 
took  the  place  by  the  bedside  which  Susan  had  but  now 
occupied,  and  sought,  in  her  own  way,  for  a  little  time  to 
amuse  her  daughter.  Not  even  near  the  borders  of  the 
place  to  which  Leah  had  led  Susan,  might  she  with  her 
worldling  projects  come.  She  might  wear  a  solemn 
countenance,  and  say  some  pious  things,  and  soothe  her 
child  with  a  delusive  thought  that  she  indeed  was  with 
her  in  this  going  to  the  world  of  spirits,  that  the  near  tie 
which  bound  them  on  earth  was  a  true  figure — (not  one 
distorted,  and  wronged  out  of  its  purpose,)  of  heavenlier 
union ;  and  all  the  comfort  that  the  reality  would  have 
given  to  Leah,  she  drew  from  this  mock  show  of  faith 
and  hope,  by  which  her  mother  deluded  herself  and  her 
child.  But  there  was  nothing  more  in  it  than  this ;  the 
one  was  already  an  accredited  citizen  of  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  in  full  possession  of  all  its  rights  and  immunities, 
and  the  other  was  not — was  only  a  complacent  self- 
deceiver.  A  few  minutes  after  Mrs.  Chilton  came  into 
the  room,  Susan  went  away,  returning  to  the  Hall.  For 
the  last  time  she  and  Leah  had  spoken  with  each  other. 


278  GETTING   ALONG. 


XL  VII. 

THAT  same  day  Mr.  Falcon  had  decided  on  still  further 
explanations  than  this  that  he  had  made  Susan. 

As  he  went  out  from  the  library,  he  was  not  altogether 
satisfied  with  the  result  of  his  conversation  with  her;  it 
troubled  him  that  she,  in  view  of  his  departure  from  the 
Hall,  should  be  so  troubled — but  he  had  left  her  more  rec- 
onciled to  that  event,  as  he  believed,  by  the  intelligence 
imparted  in  regard  to  his  future  prospects — to  his  mar- 
riage and  residence  in  St.  John's.  And  he  likewise  be- 
lieved that  this  news  he  had  brought  Susan  was  the  best 
preparation  for  the  words  Mr.  Baldwin  had  yet  to  say. 

As  he  passed  up  the  hall  to  the  portico,  he  heard  his 
name  pronounced,  and  the  rapid  tread  of  feet  that  were 
following  him.  Turning  back  he  saw  David,  who,  with 
an  agitated  face,  advanced  and  took  his  arm,  and  went  on 
down  the  avenue,  drawing  him,  a  resistless  companion, 
along  with  him. 

';  What  is  this,  Mr.  Falcon,  are  you  going  to  leave  us 
in  very  truth  ?"  he  asked,  as  they  passed  in  among  the 
fine  old  trees. 

"  In  very  truth,"  said  Falcon. 

"  But  why,  sir ;  is  not  this  house  large  enough  for  half- 
a-dozen  persons  ?  We  cannot  spare  you,  sir." 

Now  was  the  kind  heart  that  listened  troubled. 

Troubled  more  deeply  than  it  had  been  in  the  library, 
on  account  of  Susan's  unlooked-for  distress.  Because 
this  conversation  on  which  they  had  now  entered,  had  been 
anticipated  by  him  since  yesterday,  when  Mr.  Baldwin 
hinted  broadly,  while  talking  of  Clarence,  of  his  son 
David,  and  hia  view  of  the  prospects  in  regard  to  Stella 
Gammon.  Since  that  time  Mr.  Falcon  had  been  walking 
about  in  dire  dismay,  construing  anew  every  act  and 


THE    WINTRY    WALK.  279 

word  of  David  during  the  last  weeks.  And  his  dismay 
lias  reached  a  crisis,  now  that  David  walks  with  him  in 
this  solitary  place  with  one  word  on  his  lip  and  one  name, 
and  cannot  speak  it.  Yet  he  is  also  relieved,  his  own  in- 
tegrity stands  unimpeached  before  him ;  he  has  wrought 
no  wrong — or  sin — but  his  heart  is  grieved  for  David. 
He  remembers  his  own  youth. 

In  reply  to  David's  question  if  the  Hall  were  too  small 
for  him,  he  said  : 

"  You  will  smile  when  you  see  the  nut-shell  into  which 
I  shall  put  myself  when  I  leave  you." 

'•  But  why  do  you  go,  sir  ?  We  cannot  keep  house 
without  you,"  persisted  David,  determined  to  sift  his  sus- 
picions thoroughly,  if  it  should  prove  that  there  were  no- 
thing else  to  sift. 

"  Because  your  brother  has  now  no  need  of  me,  and  I 
must  go  labor  elsewhere.  Time  is  not  inine  to  waste." 

And  here  Falcon  paused,  and  perceiving  that  David 
hesitated,  and  could  not  readily  find  words  with  which  to 
express  himself,  he  gave  the  young  man  opportunity,  by 
proceeding  from  this  point  to  lecture  him  as  he  had 
never  done  in  any  wise  before,  on  his  opportunities  and 
duties;  making  mention,  as  he  went  on,  qj  the  reasons 
why  he  had  hitherto  refrained  from  such  expression  of 
his  mind,  and  the  reasons  also  for  the  present  preaching. 
David  listened  to  the  end  with  some  impatience,  as  the 
speaker  could  but  perceive ;  but  the  impatience  was  not 
felt  on  account  of  the  words  he  spoke — in  his  inmost 
heart  David  this  day  recognized  their  truth  and  perti- 
nence, but  he  had  somewhat  to  learn  that  had  little  to  do 
with  these  things.  Until  it  was  learned  these  other  con- 
siderations were  not  for  him.  It  was  not  of  himself  and 
his  duties  that  he  desired  to  hear,  of  which  he  could  hear, 
while  in  his  present  mood,  to  any  advantage.  And  while 
Mr.  Falcon  went  on,  encouraged  by  the  silence  of  his  lis- 


280  GETTING   ALONG. 

tener,  and  his  manifest  attention,  and  preached  the  truth 
with  earnest  words,  David  was  meanwhile  selecting  other 
words  and  condensing  the  meaning  of  the  question  he  de- 
signed to  ask,  into  the  smallest  possible  compass. 

When,  therefore,  Mr.  Falcon  made  an  end  of  his  speak- 
ing, David  said : 

*'  Before  you  go,  sir,  will  you  tell  me  if  it  is  Miss  Cam- 
inon  that  takes  you  away  from  us  ?" 

They  stopped  in  the  walk  with  one  impulse  as  he  asked 
this  question.  Falcon  suddenly  called  back  from  the  large 
view  he  was  but  now  taking  of  life,  its  capacities,  and 
greatness,  and  grandeur,  looked  upon  the  young  man ;  he 
saw  there  more  than  he  desired  to  see ;  but  silence  were 
wrongful  here,  let  speech  be  painful  and  grievous  as  it 
might.  He  did  not  trust  himself  to  speak,  but  bowed. 
Yes,  it  was  she  who  had  to  do  with  his  departure. 

<;  You  are,  then,  going  to  marry  her  ?"  David  asked,  in- 
stantly. 

"  God  willing,'1  was  the  answer. 

At  this,  David  turned  away  into  another  path  without 
a  word.  Falcon's  first  impulse  was  to  follow  after  him, 
but  as  he  started  forward  his  heart  asked  him,  What  is 
there  that  you  can  say  to  him  ?  Is  not  all  said  now  that 
you  can  say  f  and,  as  he  turned  back  again  towards  the 
house,  his  own  youth  came  before  him  in  all  its  storm 
and  anguish,  when  she  whom  he  loved,  loved  again,  and 
not  him,  but  another. 

He  was  standing  in  that  past  reflecting,  not  in  this 
present  irresolute,  while  he  remained  there  in  the  aveuuo 
in  the  place  where  David  had  left  him.  When  he 
emerged  from  it  again  the  light  that  fell  on  the  frost- 
bound  earth  through  the  bare  trees  was  paler  than  the 
glow  that  warmed  and  enlivened  the  man's  heart.  His 
own  experience  made  him  prophetic ;  he  wandered  down 
the  avenue  until,  unawares,  he  was  walking  side  by  side 


LIFE    IS    SHOUT.  281 

with  David,  the  spirit  of  the  man  who  was  even  then 
wandering  alone  amid  the  leafless  trees  of  December, 
and  was  saying  to  that  spirit  what  the  man  had  not  at  that 
hour  endured  to  hear,  "  Out  of  weakness  strength  is  per- 
fected. From  a  present  of  sorrow  and  desolation  a  fu- 
ture of  joy  and  fulness  shall  come." 

And  even  then  the  wanderer  in  the  wood  was  listening, 
but  not  intelligently,  to  the  confusion  of  the  pi-elude  of 
the  Divine  organist,  to  whose  music  his  now  speechless 
voice  should  yet  sing  a  new  "  psalm  of  life." 


XLVIII. 

IT  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Susan  returned  to 
the  Hall.  She  went  back  calm  and  resolved;  Leah's 
words  went  with  her,  they  were  angels  that  strengthened 
her. 

She  made  such  application  as  she  could,  at  that  time, 
of  the  words.  She  said  to  herself,  "  I  will  think  no  more 
about  these  things.  I  will  let  myself  alone.  Mr.  Fal- 
con may  go  away.  They  may  do  what  they  choose  with 
me.  Leah  says  I  am  not  my  own,  but  God's.  »Thcn  I  've 
nothing  to  do  with  it;  but — "  and  here  she  made  haste 
to  carry  her  resolution  into  practice,  as  David  and  Clar- 
ence, and  their  father,  came  before  her  mind  iu  swift  suc- 
cession. "  I  am  not  my  own,"  she  said,  again  and  again. 
"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  makes  no  difference 
how  miserable  one  is.  People  do  not  live  forever.  There 
is  Leah  dying !  .  .  .  My  mother  died  when  she  was  young 
— she  was  not  so  very  old  .  .  .  and  who  can  tell  but  I 
way  die  young  too  ?  But  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  that 
either,  Leah  says  ...  Of  course  it  is  not  to  be  expected 
that  I  should  be  happy.  But  happiness  is  nothing,  and 
misery  is  nothing.  I  shall  soon  understand  it.  I  am 


282  GETTING    ALONG. 

nothing.  For  God  is  all  in  all.  I  will  think  no  more 
about  it.  I  will  do  just  as  I  'm  bid.  No  matter  what ; 
it  is  not  iny  fault — it  is  no  concern  of  mine.  If  God 
does  not  look  after  me,  of  course  I  am  not  to  look  after 
myself.  I  will  be  quiet.  Whatever  happens,  happens 
because  it  must.  We  have  nothing  to  do  with  it;"  and 
she  dressed  herself,  so  thinking,  and  went  down  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  the  evening  wore  away. 

Wore,  how  slowly,  away  ! 

Did  Clarence  read  her  thoughts  ?  When  his  graceful 
figure  came  gliding  through  the  room,  bearing  towards 
her  directly — always  it  was  so — he  leaned  against  her 
chair,  and  began  to  tell  her  of  something  that  had  great- 
ly interested  him  in  his  reading  that  day,  and  to  ask  her 
opinion  about  it,  and  to  move  forward  from  his  place  till 
he  stood  directly  fronting  her ;  when  he  looked  upon  her 
face,  he  ceased  speaking — his  countenance  fell — 

"  Susy,"  he  said,  "  I  am  wretched." 

In  momentary  weakness  Susan  shaded  her  face  with 
her  uplifted  hand, 

"  And  so  are  you,"  he  added.  And  she  did  not 
deny  it. 

"  I  can  tjgll  you  why,"  he  continued. 

"  Oh  no  !  do  not !"  Susan  urged ;  "  bring  the  chess- 
men,  Clarence  ;  a  game  will  do  us  good.  I  went  out  in 
the  street — and  it  was  so  cold — it  makes  me  stupid." 

"  .No,  Susy — it  is  not  that.  Something  worse.  Your 
heart  is  so  cold  !  You  made  me  love  you — but  you  have 
no  love  for  me."  — 

This  he  said  with  an  indescribable  mournfulness — he 
could  in  no  other  way  account  for  the  change  in  Susan's 
manner  towards  him,  than  by  the  supposition  that  his 
father  had  communicated  his  highest  hope  to  her,  and 
that  she  was  going  to  disappoint  it.  Any  other  person 
in  the  house,  even  closely  observant  of  Susan,  could  have 


THE   NEW    STRUGGLE.  283 

detected  nothing  in  her  recent  bearing  towards  him  that 
gave  evidence  of  any  new  enlightenment  in  her  mind  or 
any  revolution  in  her  heart  concerning  him — but  he  who 
was  so  watchful,  so  mindful  of  every  variation  in  her 
mood,  was  certain  that  his  eyes  and  ears  had  not  deceived 
him — in  her  heart  she  had  rejected  him  .  .  . 

"  You  made  me  alive  !  but  now  you  kill  me  !"  he  ex- 
claimed after  a  momentary  silence,  speaking  with  a  vehe- 
ment passion,  new  and  strange. 

K  Clarence  !  bring  the  chess-men,"  burst  from  Susan. 
"  You  talk  like  a  cruel,  wicked  boy." 

"  No — I  am  an  unfortunate,  miserable  man." 

''  We  shall  have  no  game  to-night,  then." 

Clarence  looked  at  Susan — how  strangely  sweet  her 
voice  was  !  and  lo,  she  was  looking,  smiling,  up  towards 
him.  He  saw  the  smile,  saw  the  flush  on  her  face,  that 
was  but  now  so  pale  ;  he  threw  away  his  fear ;  it  made 
him  quite  too  wretched,  and  wretched  he  could  not  be 
while  she  was  smiling,  blushing  there  before  him.  He 
drew  back  from  her,  he  came  up  again  still  nearer,  he 
bowed,  till  his  face  was  near  to  hers — not  with  a  kiss,  not 
with  embracing — but  to  say  what  froze  the  smile  and 
the  heart  of  the  child. 

"  You  will  love  me,  Susy — I  only  ask  a  little — be  not 
so  proud — or  I — I — "  he  drew  himself  up,  and  a  terrible 
energy  impelled  the  low-spoken  words — "J.he  last  state 
of  the  man  will  be  worse  than  the  first !" 

"  Sit  here  by  me,  Clarence — wait  !  I  will  bring  the 
chessboard  ...  I  am  not  proud — how  could  you  say 
that  ?  You  are  not  kind  to  me,  Clarence." 

Susan  went  to  bring  the  board,  and  Mr.  Baldwin,  who 
had  watched  every  gesture  of  his  children  from  a  dis- 
tance, rubbed  his  hands  in  fatherly  exultation,  with  a 
whispered,  "  By  George,  Falcon  !  we  have  done  it !" 

David  also  had  joined  the  family  in  the  drawing-room, 


284  GETTING    ALONC. 

and,  as  if  his  secret  were  known  to  every  person  there,  he 
exerted  himself  likewise,  but  even  more  desperately  than 
Susan  was  doing.  He  did  not  take  refuge  in  quiet,  but 
in  excitement — he  sang  glees  with  Isidore  and  Horace 
Chilton,  talked  much  and  brilliantly,  and  did  his  utmost 
to  persuade  the  house  that  he  was  the  freest  and  happiest 
of  men. 

When,  late  in  the  evening,  De  Lisle  Layard  came  in 
with  the  intelligence  that  Professor  Leighton  had  accept- 
ed the  call  to  the  presidential  chair  of  the  St.  John's 
College,  and  would  probably  arrive  in  town  during  the 
evening,  David  made  haste  to  escape  away  from  the  house 
with  him,  and  did  not  return  again  that  night. 

In  town  that  night !  De  Lisle  Layard  had  said,  That 
Night ! 

It  was  another  thought  than  that  with  which  Leah 
had  endeavored  to  inform  the  mind  of  Susan  that  the 
child  lay  down  upon  her  bed,  and,  exhausted  by  the 
tempestuous  day,  and  the  still  more  tempestuous  even- 
ing, slept,  without  dream  or  motion,  until  daybreak. 

Her  deliverer  had  come  ! 

She  might  have  gone  to  him ;  she  might  so  have 
spared  herself  all  this  through  whioh  she  had  passed, 
this  conflict  and  dread,  and  the  aversion  to  Clarence,  or 
at  least  her  duty  towards  him — with  which  she  had 
struggled  in  shame  and  sorrow.  She  is  aware  of  that ; 
she  might  have  gone  to  live  with  Mr.  Leighton — but 
when  she  asks  herself  the  question,  knowing  all  that  has 
come  to  pass,  all  that  has  been,  and  all  that  is  required 
of  her  now,  Would  you  have  done  wisely  or  well  to 
have  escaped  it,  Susan  ?  she  answers  "  no." 

But  she  will  go  now  to  him.  She  docs  not  believe  all 
that  they  tell  her  iu  regard  to  Clarence — she  will  not 
think  of  what  last  night  passed  between  them ;  it  is  not 
so  needful  that  she  should  be  ever  in  his. sight  .  .  .  that 


THE    NEW    DECISION.        ^  285 

without  her  ruin  would  come  again  upon  him  He  is 
strong  and  studious ;  he  goes  out  amongst  men ;  what 
thej-  all  tell  her  is  not,  it  cannot  be  true.  It  makes  no 
difference  that  Mr.  Baldwin  has  placed  the  event  of  her 
marriage  with  him  so  far  beyond  the  present — :that  it 
lies  in  any  future  is  sufficient — that  for  a  moment  she 
should  be  looked  upon  as  the  betrothed  of  Clarence  is 
more  than  she  can  bear. 

She  can  well  endure  that  David  should  hold  to  her  the 
relation  that  he  does,  and  ever  has — that  he  should  look 
upon  her  as  a  child,  and  speak  as  to  childhood  when  he 
speaks  to  her — she  can  endure  to  have  him  pity  her — to 
know  that  her  first  thoughts  of  him  were  utter  madness — 
but  they  must  not,  now  or  ever,  marry  her  to  Clarence. 
What  is  all  the  splendor  of  the  Hall  ?  what  are  all  the 
promises  Mr.  Baldwin  makes  ?  The  long  journeyings  ; 
even  that  journey  to  the  birth-place  of  her  mother  !  .  .  . 
The  new  house  on  the  beach,  the  accomplishments,  and 
society,  and  fine  dress — ^what  is  all  the  world  at  such  a 
price  as  this  ?  She  can  do  anything  but  love  Clarence^— 
and  understanding  this  so  well,  for  often  she  has  pon- 
dered it  in  her  heart,  she  has  of  her  own  self  come  to 
understand  her  relation  evermore  to  David.  She  can 
pity  Clarence ;  or  she  could  until  all  that  necessity  was 
removed.  She  can  admire  him,  can  live  with  him,  and 
study  with  him, — but  never,  never  while  the  world  stands, 
can  she  love  and  marry  him  ! 

Yesterday  she  had  put  away  these  thoughts.  She  said 
to  herself,  "  God  is  all  in  all.  If  I  am  glad  or  grieved, 
it 's  all  one  to  me.  I  am  nothing !"  But  the  instant 
that  she  knew  that  Mr.  Leighton  was  coming,  that  he 
was  even  then  approaching  his  new  home,  she  was  flying 
out  against  fate  in  rebellion,  resolving  anew,  passionately 
declaiming  in  her  heart  against  the  demands  that  the  peo- 
ple around  her  would  make  of  her — she  was  her  own — 


286  .  GETTING   ALOXG. 

she  was  Mr.  Leigh  ton's — she  would  go  anywhere,  struggle 
through  any  fate,  rather  than  remain  here,  and  suffer  this. 
She  rose  up  in  the  morning,  as  a  young  soldier  on  the 
morning  of  a  battle — '•  This  day  shall  see  my  victory." 


XLIX. 

AT  the  door  of  Miss  Watson's  chamber  Stella  Gam- 
mon is  again  waiting  for  admittance. 

Twice  she  has  announced  a  guest  to  the  ear  of  the  in- 
mate of  the  little  hall-room,  but  still  she  waits  permis- 
sion to  go  in. 

Miss  Watson  is  not  in  a  mood  for  visitors,  apparently, 
if  one  may  judge  from  the  silence  she  keeps,  and  the  ab- 
straction in  which  she  continues  to  brood  over  some  pa- 
pers in  her  hand ;  remaining  in  the  position  in  which  the 
first  knock  found  her,  she  has  not  an  intention  of  grant- 
ing admittance  to  the  person  who  waits  without. 

But  when  Stella  speaks,  and  calls  to  her,  the  lady's  face 
brightens  perceptibly ;  she  has  no  objection  to  a  guest 
like'  Stella.  She  cannot  turn  her  away.  She  does  not 
merely  say,  "  Come  in," — she  drops  her  papers,  and  her- 
self opens  the  door,  and  greets  Stella  with  a  kiss. 

"  And  now,"  she  says,  not  waiting  for  a  presentation 
of  the  cause,  "  what  has  kept  you  so  long  away  ?  You 
have  waited  for  a  new  plague-spot  to  appear — discover  it 
to  me,  Miss  Stella." 

"  Ah — you  do  not  speak.  You  have  good  news,  then, 
to  tell  me;  you  were  never  so  slow  in  delivering  yourself 
when  you  had  any  trouble  to  tell." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Stella  frankly,  mastering  the  mo- 
mentary embarrassment  with  which  she  met  Miss  Wat- 
son's salutation.  "  I  have  followed  your  last  advice  to 
the  letter.  But  I  want  more  counsel  yet." 


MISS  WATSON'S  INTUITION.  287 

"Ah,  but  you  have  now  another  counsellor  !" 
"  Yes — and  still  I  need  you,  who  are  a  woman." 
"  My  dear,  if  you  need  a  woman's  counsel,  you  have 
yourself.     If  you  want  a  man's,  you  have  his,  whoever  ho 
may   be.       You  must   renounce  all  evil   habits,  and  I 
should  call  this  an  evil  one.    You  must  by  no  means  con- 
tinue to  take  counsel  of  the  world.     You  have  now  a 
little  world  of  your  own — a  universe  of  mind  complete 
and  sufficient  as  your  needs." 

"  I  am  nevertheless  at  a  dead  loss,"  said  Stella  quietly, 
"  and  you  must  e'en  help  me.  I  cannot,  by  any  discov- 
erable means,  make  it  known  to  Aunt  Judith  what  I 
think  of  matrimony.  She  will  not  see,  hear,  or  believe. 
She  is  deaf  and  blind." 
"  And  dumb,  too  ?" 

"  Not  dumb.  By  no  means.  I  am  pretty  well  in- 
formed as  to  her  opinion  of  the  poor  old  man  I  shall  call 
my  husband." 

"  Poor  and  old,  is  he  ?" 
"  Has  not  Aunt  Judith  told  you  ?" 
"  It  may  be  I  have  seen  him." 
"  Oh !  in  Mr.  Silsey's  room  ?" 
"  Yes.     I  wish  you  joy  with  all  my  heart." 
"  Of  the  poor  old  man  ?  thank  you,  Miss  Watson.     It 
is  all  your  fault.     If  you  had  not  counselled  me  in  that 
absurd  way,  no  doubt  I  should  have  married  a  handsome 
fashionable  man  of  fortune,  and  taken  the  lead  in  another 
manner  than  now  seems  probable." 
"  I  know." 

"  Aunt  Judith  has  been  communicating  the  sad  state 
of  things  to  you,  Miss  Watson  ?" 

"Dear  child,  intuitions  serve  as  well  as  gossip.  I  am 
going  back  into  the  country  to-morrow ;  do  you  still  de- 
sire to  go  with  me  ?  ...  No  !  .  .  .  I  read  that ;  be  not 
at  the  trouble  of  explaining  away  your  meaning." 


288  GETTING    ALONG. 

"  I  heard  that  you  were  going.  And  I  know  the  rea- 
son why.  You  would  not  choose  to  have  me  come  at 
such  a  time.  Miss  Watson,  do  you  know  I  think  you  are 
the  very  noblest  woman  in  the  world  ?" 

"  Oh,  hush — what  perfect  nonsense,  Stella.  If  you 
went  down  merely  one  pair  of  stairs  in  this  house,  you 
would  find  a  young  creature  that  puts  me  to  shame  ;  and 
I  do  not  suppose  that  you  could  go  up  or  down  any  pair 
of  stairs,  without  finding  a  landing  and  a  room  with  some 
such  inmate." 

"  I  know  very  well  what  women  are,"  said  Stella, 
manifestly  intent  on  holding  to  her  previous  declara- 
tion. 

"  Obviously  you  do  not,"  said  Miss  Watson. 

"  At  all  events,  I  know  to  what  you  just  now  refer ;  my 
friend,  Lucia,  has  told  me  all  about  it.  If  you  had  un- 
dertaken to  glorify  her,  I  would  have  joined  in  with  all 
my  heart.  I  know  that  Mr.  Silsey  has  been,  somehow  or 
other,  encouraged  by  his  wife,  and  helped  on  by  her,  too 
— a  sort  of  angelic  mission  she  has  had,  I  suppose ;  and  I 
know  the  stir  he  will  soon  be  making  among  men  of 
science,  upsetting  their  theories,  proving  himself  the 
veriest  iconoclast  in  the  world,  and — " 

"  Well,  well,  what  if  you  do  know  all  this,  child  ?  I 
can  tell  you  far  more.  He  never  would  have  cdine  to 
any  point  or  conclusion  but  for  his  wife.  She  has  shown 
him  how  to  live  iu  the  first  place— and  a  man  must  learn 
that  before  he  can  act  to  much  puqxiM!.  A  life  delicate, 
tender,  and  true,  like  that  of  his  young  wife,  was  needful 
to  evolve  in  his  what  was  spccjally  needful  to  all  effective 
working.  She  is  the  spirit  of  his  spirit,  the  secret  spring 
to  all  his  efficient  labor. 'v 

"  But  your  wife  and  son,  Miss  Watfon,  that  poor,  heart- 
broken woman,  for  whom  you  have  shown  such  heavenly 
compassion — " 


VOLUNTARY    TRIBUTE.  289 

"  She  is  not  heart-broken,  Stella." 

"  And  the  boy  you  have  to  educate ;  and  there  is  a 
mortgage  on  your  farm,  too.  I  wish  I  had  a  mint  of 
money-!  You  exerted  yourself  so  many  ways  to  save  a 
man  from  ruin  when  you  believed  him  innocent.  Do  not 
hinder  me.  I  will  speak — I  will  say  that  the  world 
should  know  of  it ;  and  I  know  very  well  what  it  is  you 
are  now  going  to  do.  You  have  found  all  at  once  so 
many  new  things  to  say — and  new  books  are  to  be  writ- 
ten !  no  wonder  you  can  speak  when  you  can  do  so  much. 
I  tell  you  I  reverence  you ;  I  am  astonished  when  I  think 
of  you.  I  cannot  forgive  myself  that  I  have  come  to  you 
so  many  times — " 

"  You  never  came  but  twice,  Stella,"  broke  in  Miss 
Watson,  with  her  slow,  rich  voice. 

"  Bothering  }'ou  about  my  own  difficulties  and  perplex- 
ities," continued  Stella,  unmindful  of  the  interruption.  "  I 
do  not  know  that  any  other,  woman  or  man,  would  ven- 
ture to  say  this  much  to  you — perhaps  it  is  trespassing ; 
but  I  desired  that  you  should  hear  me  say  that  I  know 
how  noble  and  grand  you  are,  and  that  I  know  why  you 
are  going  to  live  in  the  country,  and  why  you  set  to  work 
again  ;  and  if  there  is  a  desire  in  my  heart,  it  is  to  be 
like  you.  And  Mr.  Falcon  thinks  with  me.  If  I  have 
no  other  purpose  in  life  I  have  at  least  this,  to  be  like  you." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  suppose  it  would  be  ungracious  to 
put  back  all  this  glorification,  but  really  it  seems  to  me 
something  like — like — "  Miss  Watson's  voice  had  a 
tremulous,  uncertain  sound,  now  it  was  silent. 

"  Like  what,  Miss  Watson  ?" 

"  As  though  you  were  so  happy,  my  dear,  in  your  own 
heart,  that  your  joy  must  find  some  sort  of  expression, 
and  you  put  it  off  on  to  me.  I  forgive  you,  but  I  must 
forget  also  in  order  to  do  that ;  so  pray  do  not  revive  a 
sense  of  the  injury  by  repetition." 

VOL.  n.  13 


290  GETTING   ALONG. 

"  Oh  well,  Miss  Watson,  be  it  as  you  will ;  but  I  am 
not  so  marvellously  happy  after  all." 

"  Not  ?" 

"  With  Aunt  Judith  disappointed — and  I  know  not 
how  to  reconcile  her  ;  there  's  a  wall  between  us,  I  fancy, 
wide  enough  for  all  the  horsemen  in  the  world  to  ride 
abreast.  Indeed  there  is  a  world  between  us,  and  I  do 
not  know  the  route  to  take  by  which  I  may  come  back  to 
her  again." 

"  Go  home  and  tell  her  everything.  You  should  have 
done  that  long  since ;  surely  she  deserved  your  confi- 
dence." 

"  I  will  go,"  said  Stella,  rising  at  once,  "  but  I  have 
told  her,  many  times,  in  such  ways  as  you  would  think 
that  she,  being  a  woman,  might  understand.  May  I 
really  go  to  visit  you  at  the  Elms,  and — " 

"  See  my  family,  my  wife  and  child,  as  you  call  them  ? 
Yes.  Come  whenever  you  will — you  shall  have  the  in- 
troduction to  my  son.  You  are  going  to  marry  an  old 
man,  you  say  .  .  .  Let  me  congratulate  you,  my  dear, 
though  you  slander  the  good  man.  And  now,  keep  fast 
hold  of  this  truth,  that  inward  Peace  is  worth  more  than 
the  whole  of  California." 

"  I  have  it  safe.  Miss  Watson." 

"  Verily,  my  dear,  I  do  believe  you." 

Stella  went  out  joyous  and  free  into  the  winter  air. 
Within  remained  Miss  Watson,  solitary  with  her  thoughts, 
fast  bound  to  her  obligations.  A  very  fit  and  proper  ob- 
ject for  the  commiseration  of  all  those  who  whirl  through 
the  world  in  fast  coaches,  reducing  the  glory  of  God  to 
the  sham  of  a  panorama  ! 

She  did  not  immediately  return   to  her  papers  when 
Stella  was  gone ;  she  lost  herself  in  other  meditations. 
Her  face  had  au  unwonted  sadness,  as  for  a  brief  t 
she  gave  way  to  her  reflections.     The  pressing  anxiety 


THE    BATTLE    BESUMED.  291 

under  which  she  had  labored  many  months  of  the  year 
that  was  fast  drawing  to  a  close,  was  now  gone — the  cause 
at  least  had  been  removed.  For  Herder,  whom  she  had 
striven,  mightily,  to  save  from  a  life-long  imprisonment, 
there  was  no  longer  either  hope  or  fear.  The  sentence 
that  had  been  pronounced  against  him  was  proved  to  be, 
after  repeated  effort  in  his  behalf,  irrevocable.  He  was 
a  prisoner  for  life,  this  lover,  the  lover  of  her  youth. 

From  the  efforts  she  had  made  in  vain  to  save  him, 
Miss  Watson  had  now  with  unflagging  courage  turned  to 
a  new  enterprise  and  eadeavor.  How  much  had  she  to 
live  for ! 

Henceforth  there  was  a  shelter  in  her  home  for  the 
lives  that  had  been  bound  up  in  Herder's.  In  her  labor 
and  endeavor  to  save  him  that  little  farm,  as  Stella  had 
persisted  but  now  in  saying  to  her — as  if  with  the  intent 
that  Miss  Watson  might  for  a  moment  look  at  her  own 
work  through  the  admiring  eyes  of  another — the  Elms 
had  been  mortgaged ;  and  now  for  a  life  of  self-denial 
and  of  labor ! 

She  rose  prepared  for  it. 

Any  fate  she  is  able  to  endure.  Her  heart  is  rent, 
her  brain  is  taxed — this  is  all  true  ;  she  looks  the  truth 
in  the  face  and  turns  away ;  not  from  it — but  from  any 
gayer  prospect ;  she  is  a  woman  of  few  words,  and  hence- 
forth there  is  to  be,  in  her  case,  one  long  struggle  that  in- 
volves life — one  great  triumph  which  compasses  eternity. 

No  wonder  that  Violet  Silsey,  whose  eyes  are  opened  to 
see  how  warm  a  blood  it  is  that  makes  Miss  Watson's 
pulse  so  strong,  inspiring  her  intellect,  flowing  through 
every  thought  as  well  as  into  every  act ;  no  wonder  Violet 
has  in  her  own  way  come  to  love  this  friend  of  Silsey,  and 
to  question  no  more  within  herself  about  the  marvellous 
catalysis,  the  mystery  of  which  she  has  come,  inwardly, 
to  comprehend  so  well ! 


292  GETTING    ALONG. 


L. 

INSTEAD  of  returning  home  at  once,  Stella  went  far 
down  beyond  the  house  in  John  street,  even  to  the 
convent. 

In  the  same  parlor  where,  not  long  ago,  Miss  Mar  held 
her  consultation  with  the  nun,  the  pupil,  in  whom  so 
many  pious  hopes  had  centred,  waited  for  her  teacher. 

At  length  Theresa  came.     She  came  in  haste. 

"  I  can  but  stay  a  moment  with  you  to  day, "-she  said, 
hurriedly ;  "  the  recess  is  nearly  over ;  if  you  have  any 
thing  to  say,  my  daughter,  make  no  delay." 

Never  before  had  Stella  seen  the  nun  so  agitated.  She 
wondered  because  of  it — she  would  still  have  wondered, 
perhaps  even  more,  had  she  known  what  those  tidings 
were  which  had  stirred  the  woman's  heart  so  deeply,  even 
to  the  disturbance  of  the  spirit  of  the  saint. 

The  nun  no  doubt  anticipated  other  intelligence  than 
that  which  Stella  brought — for,  not  surprise  alone,  but 
somewhat  of  disappointment  also,  was  indicated  in  her 
manner  of  listening  to  these  words  : 

"  I  should  have  come  to  you  before,  dear  mother,  but  I 
was  not  so  courageous  as  I  should  have  been.  I  am 
going  to  be  married — the  precise  time  when,  I  cannot 
tell — but  such  is  the  fact." 

"  With  De  Lisle  Layard  ?"  asked  the  nun — evinc- 
ing in  her  hasty  utterance  alone  any  surprise  or  feeling 
whatever. 

"  Oh,  no.  He  is  going  into  the  Church,  you  know. 
He  is  to  be  a  priest,"  said  Stella,  wondering  at  the  ques- 
tion of  the  nun.  Surely  she  already  was  aware  of  the  desti- 
nation of  De  Lisle. 

"  True,  I  had  forgotten  .  .  .  I  am  at  a  loss  then.     I — " 

Stella  hastened  to  name  the  name  of  Falcon. 


THE    NAME.  293 

"  The  preacher  we  heard  that  day — you  remember  ?" 
she  said,  and  waited  anxiously  for  the  reply. 

"  We  have  then  truly  lost  you  .  .  .  But  we  have  found 
you  in  a  fuller  sense,  a  better  sense,  my  daughter." 

The  nun  spoke  now  with  all  her  wonted  composure, 
and  with  a  certain  satisfaction  which  Stella  was  swift  to 
discern. 

<;  Mother,"  said  Stella,  "  I  have  often  called  you  by 
that  name — did  you  think  because  I  heard  some  others 
do  so  ?  .  .  .  that  was  not  the  reason." 

"  You  have  indeed  been  my  child." 

"  But,  not  only  as  those  others  ?" 

"  Not  thus,  my  Stella — no,  not  thus."  The  nun's 
voice  was  full  of  tenderness — so  also  were  those  eyes  that 
looked  on  Stella. 

"  I  knew  that  I  was  dear  to  you,"  said  the  pupil 
to  her  teacher,  emboldened  thus  to  speak  yet  further  of 
the  sacred  truth  that  lived  in  the  holiest  depth  of  her 
heart.  "  I  never  could  have  given  that  name  to  any  be- 
side you,  I  think.  I  tried  it  with  Aunt  Judith,  but  it 
was  impossible.  But  when  I  called  you  so,  I  did  not 
feel  in  my  heart  that  in  reality  I  had  no  mother ;  that  I 
had  grown  up  somehow,  well  cared  for,  but  still  without 
a  mother.  I  did  not  feel  so  lonely  and  desolate  as  I 
should  have  felt  without  you.  And  therefore,  others  may 
wish  me  joy,  but  you  .  .  .  you  must  bless  me.  You 
have  been  mother,  and  priest,  and  friend,  to  me.  I  could 
not  have  loved  any  woman  better  than  you.  I  cannot 
imagine  a  face  that  would  have  been  dearer.  I  owe  so 
much  to  you  .  .  .  remember,  too,  it  was  you  who  led  me 
where  I  heard  this  man  proclaim  the  good  news.  Oh, 
those  strange  human  faces !"  she  paused,  and  bowed  her 
head  upon  her  hands.  When  she  looked  up  again,  her 
fair  young  face  was  glorious  with  the  spirit  beaming  from 
it.  "  It  came  to  me,  news  of  salvation,  as  it  did  to  thoso 


294  GETTING    ALONG. 

others  who  heard  it  that  day."  She  said,  in  a  lower, 
calmer  tone,  "  I  had  as  great  a  need  to  hear  it.  I  was  as 
wretchedly  heathen  ...  I  am  going  to  work  with  him  .  .  . 
Will  you  bless  me  to  such  a  life  as  that,  dear  mother  ?" 

"  I  will  ask  the  everlasting  Father  to  smile  on  you,  my 
child,"  said  the  nun ;  her  voice  was  tremulous — her  soul 
was  stirred  within  her  by  the  earnest  speaking  to  which 
she  had  listened. 

"  And  I,  I  will  praise  Him  forever,  that  he  brought 
me  here  to  you  when  I  was  in  want  of  all  things — hungry 
and  thirsty,  my  soul  fainting  within  me,"  said  Stella. 
Her  voice  was  not  faltering — but  her  face  was  very  pale, 
and  she  was  trembling  with  emotion. 

"  Sit  here,  and  tell  me  all.  my  daughter." 

They  had  been  standing  while  they  spoke  thus  together, 
but  now  Theresa  drew  Stella  to  a  seat  beside  her.  And 
while  Stella  obeyed,  and  told  her  "  all,"  the  convent  bell 
rang  twice  in  vain  for  the  teacher.  She  heard  nothing 
but  the  voice  that  was  sweeter  than  melody  in  her  ear, 
till  a  messenger  appeared  within  the  parlor  door  and 
summoned  her  to  the  school-room. 

From  the  convent  Stella  Gammon  went  home  straight- 
way to  Miss  Mar.  This  day  must  sec  and  hear  the  end 
of  her  confession. 

"  Aunt  Judith,"  she  said,  taking  up  the  great  piece  of 
tapestry  on  which  Miss  Mar  had  been  at  work  during  the 
last  month  with  unwearying  industry ;  for  the  needle  of 
the  good  lady  had  now  a  new  purpose  in  its  movements; 
she  was  unscrupulous  in  her  demands  upon  it — that  needle, 
hers  alone — her  hand  alone  of  all  the  fair  hands  that 
make  gorgeous  tapestries,  should  adorn  the  future  church 
of  the  future  priest,  De  Lisle  Layard. 

"  Aunt  Judith,"  she  said,  taking  up  the  work,  and  fix- 
ing her  eyes  upon  it,  leaving  Miss  Mar  meanwhile  with 
her  unoccupied  needle  in  her  hand — "  Aunt  Judith — " 


MARKS    ON    THE    CALENDAR.  205 

a  third  time  she  began.  To  which  repetition  Miss  Mar. 
less  impatient  for  the  remainder  of  the  sentence  than  for 
the  work,  replied  : 

"  Stella,  what  is  it  you  are  going  to  say  ?" 

"  Did  you  ever  keep  a  reckoning  of  the  number  of  times 
I  have  offended  you?"  Stella  laughed  while  she  spoke, 
and  Miss  Mar  did  not  observe  her  embarrassment. 

"  They  are  more  in  number  than  the  sands  of  the  sea 
.  .  .  What  folly  !"  said  Miss  Mar.  She  said  it  with  a 
sigh,  yet  evidently  with  a  feeling  of  relief.  She  had  al- 
most begun  to  fear  that  some  terrible  announcement,  of 
which  she  had  of  late  continual  foreboding,  lay  behind 
this  unnatural  hesitation. 

"  But  you  always  forget  and  forgave  my  offences,  did 
you  not,  dear  aunt  ?  You  rubbed  them  off  the  calendar 
before  they  were  fairly  written  out,  did  you  not  ?" 

"  If  I  did  not,  you  did,"  answered  Miss  Mar,  with  a 
gentle  sigh,  her  face  brightening  perceptibly. 

•  And  for  that  reason  I  hope — for  that  reason  I  be- 
lieve, Aunt  Judith,  that  you  are  not  now  going  to  be  very 
angry  long.  That  soon  you  will  be  forgetting  and  for- 
giving again.  And  I  certainly  shall  wait  expecting  to 
hear  that  you  have  rubbed  off  this  last  fearfully  black 
mark  you  have  against  me." 

"  Stella  !"  began  Miss  Mar,  hurriedly,  but  with  a  glance 
at  her  to  whom  she  spoke ;  she  stopped  abruptly,  waiting 
until  she  should  have  obtained  a  better  control  over 
herself.  "I  certainly  have  nothing  against  you,  Stella; 
I  trust  I  have  not,  Stella,"  she  said,  mildly,  at  last. 

"  But  you  must  know,  aunt ;  have  you  nothing  1  are 
you  sure  ?" 

Aunt  Judith  was  now  silent  again. 

"  Oh,  aunt,  is  it  so  hard  to  forgive  ?" 

Miss  Mar  was  strangely  moved  at  the  sound  of  this 
voice — true  it  came  from  out  another  sphere  than  that 


296  GETTING    ALONG. 

which  she  inhabited,  and  yet  she  heard  it.  This  protest- 
ant  protested  against  the  barrier  there  was  between 
them;  this,  at  least,  she  could  hear  and  perceive.  But 
still  she  seemed  quite  undecided  as  to  how  she  should 
receive  the  words — this  heretical  young  person  had  ways 
of  arguing  to  which  Aunt  Judith  dared  not  listen — she 
had  too  many  times  adventured  quite  too  far  with  her — 
many  a  tearful  confession,  many  an  act  of  penance  had 
Stella  unwittingly  occasioned  poor  Miss  Mar.  The  good 
lady  now  could  do  no  other  than  suspect  this  violent  beat- 
ing of  her  own  heart — scarcely  could' she  restrain  the  ut- 
terance it  besought.  In  her  silence  she  stretched  forth 
her  hand,  and  made  as  if  she  would  take  the  piece  of 
tapestry;  but  Stella  did  not  observe  the  movement,  or 
would  not ;  she  still  retained  it  in  her  hold. 

Coldly,  then — thinking  of  the  wrongs  the  blessed 
Mother,  the  Church,  had  sustained  at  this  young,  lawless 
creature's  hands,  coldly,  Miss  Mar  tried  to  say : 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive  you." 

"  But  you  think  you  have,  Aunt  Judith,"  Stella  an- 
swered ;  and,  as  with  a  remorseful  thought,  "  I  know  that 
I  have  disappointed  you.  My  nature  is  such,  after  all 
that  you  have  done  for  me,  I  must  have  different  ways  of 
thinking  from  you ;  and  then,  most  unfortunate !  I  was 
surprised  into  a  promise  of  marriage  with  a  man  you  do 
not  like !" 

"  I  have  no  dislike  for  Mr.  Falcon,  I  am  sure,"  said  the 
poor  lady,  speaking  now  in  great  haste,  and  with  unwonted 
energy.  She  almost  believed  that  there  was  still  a  chance 
of  hope  for  Stella.  What  did  that  word  which  her  child 
but  now  had  used — what  did  it  signify?  "  Surprised,  did 
you  say,  Stella? — were  you  surprised  into  the  promise, 
then  ?" 

"  Yes,  aunt,  it  was  done  suddenly  .  .  .  but  since  then, 
solemnly.  I  am  not  held  by  vows  alone,  but — " 


AUNT    JUDITH'S    DRIFT.  297 

"  How  then  ?"  demanded  Miss  Mar. 

"  By  my  whole  heart,  aunt.  And  this  I  know — to  you, 
my  protector,  I  will  say  it,  here  in  this  house,  where  you 
have  sheltered  me  so  many  years — "  Stella  paused — she 
spoke  again,  her  voice  sank  to  a  lower,  sweeter,  sadder, 
more  confiding,  earnest  tone;  Miss  Mar  listened  to  it 
breathlessly,  to  the  words  with  her  best  hearing.  "  When, 
hereafter,  in  the  heavens  to  which  we  are  both  looking 
with  faith  and  hope,  when  my  mother  shall  ask  you  of  the 
child  for  whom  you  cared  so  well  on  earth,  you  will  surely 
have  it  in  your  power  to  say  that  you  had  compassion  on 
her  when  she  was  a  woman,  as  well  as  tender  care  for  her 
while  she  was  a  child.  I  know  that  you  will  say  to  her, 
She  prayed  to  our  Father  in  other  words  than  I ;  she 
was  not  as  wise  in  the  wisdom  of  the  world  as  I  would 
have  had  her ;  but  still  I  prayed  for  her,  and  had  com- 
passion on  her.  I  loved  her,  and  forgave  her.  I  tried  to 
believe  the  best  of  her — I  gave  her  my  blessing,  and  be- 
'sought  that  she  might  live  in  the  love  of  the  truth  .  .  . 
Oh,  aunt,  shall  it  not  be  so  ?" 

The  tapestry  dropped  from  Stella's  hand  as  she  ceased 
this  pleading. 

Miss  Mar  caught  it  in  its  descent  to  the  floor ;  and,  as 
she  bent  to  do  so,  she  brushed  away  a  tear. 

"  Aunt,  what  do  you  say?"  asked  Stella,  falling  suddenly 
down  on  her  knees  before  the  astonished  woman. 

"  I  shall  give  up  my  house  and  go  into  the  convent," 
said  Miss  Mar,  gloomily. 

"  Will  you  be  happy  there  ?  .  .  .  Yes  !  I  know  you 
will,"  cried  Stella,  full  of  faith,  the  prospect  suddenly 
brightening  to  her  vision. 

"  Without  you !" 

Stella  made  no  answer.  She  had  not  looked  to  hear  a 
word  expressive  of  so  much  pure  feeling  as  this  from  the 
ritual  laden  soul,  that  plied  her  constant  needle  among 

13* 


29S  GETTING    ALONG. 

those  gorgeous  colors,  living  in  them  and  her  Church: 
the  words  were  uttered  with  a  moan. 

11  Without  you  ...  I  am  like  Rachael  when  her  chil- 
dren were  not !" 

"  No,  no !  aunt ;  it  is  not  so,"  exclaimed  Stella,  now 
in  a  sort  of  desperation.  I  am  not  so  lost  to  you.  I  am 
alive,  and  here ;  I  shall  live  daily  in  your  sight.  Forever 
mindful  of  you,-  aunt  .  .  .  Forever  grateful." 

"  Wait,  Stella  .  .  .  Say  no  more  about  it — not  a 
word.  I  will  try  to  think  of  it ;  I  will,  indeed.  But 
don't — you  must  not  hurry  me."  So  saying,  with  many 
falterings.  she  nervously  threw  aside  her  work,  and  left 
the  room. 

LI. 

No  opportunity  for  resuming  his  conversation  with  Su- 
san had  occurred  to  Mr.  Baldwin  when  they  met  at  the 
breakfast-table  the  next  morning. 

Ishmael  was  prepared  to  wait  for  her,  to  bring  him  her 
answer — provided  she  should  manifest  an  intention  that 
way  speedily !  For  Ishmael  was  not  patient  of  delay. 
Last  night,  when  he  watched  her  in  the  drawing-room,  he 
laughed  heartily  at  himself,  remembering  his  morning 
disturbance.  What  occasion  had  there  been  for  so  much 
precaution,  and  so  many  arguments,  as  had  made  this  lit- 
tle affair  remarkable  !  The  child  sitting  there,  so  quietly 
playing  chess  with  Clarence,  had.  doubtless,  never  another 
thought  in  her  head  than  to  do  as  she  was  bidden  ! 

During  the  breakfast  Susan  was  abstracted  and  dull, 
did  not  hear  distinctly,  had  nothing  to  say.  Mr.  Bald- 
win observed,  and  told  himself  that  this  was  her  timidity, 
a  young  girl's  embarrassment — natural  enough,  too,  un- 
der the  circumstances.  But — she  was  diligently  watch- 
ful— was  not  stupid  nor  dull,  nor  just  now  thoughtful  of 


THE    PRESIDENT.  290 

herself;  at  least,  not  sufficiently  so  for  embarrassment. 
She  was  waiting  for  one  event — the  departure  of  David 
from  the  table,  when  she  would  follow  close  in  his  foot- 
steps, and  ask  him  about  Mr.  Leighton,whom,  he  had  told 
liis  father — Susan  heard  him — he  went  last  night  to  visit. 

And  precisely  in  accordance  with  the  plan  on  which 
she  had  resolved  did  Susan  act. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Leighton  ?"  she  asked  David,  hurry- 
ing along  before  the  others,  as  they  all  left  the  breakfast- 
room,  and  walking  on  towards  the  colonnade,  when  he 
made  as  though  he  were  going  into  the  library.  He  fol- 
lowed her,  in  order  to  answer  her  question,  and  told  her 
the  hotel  where  the  president  had  passed  the  night. 

"And  he  asked  about  you,  Susan,"  David  remarked, 
in  addition  to  the  information  she  had  sought.  "  He 
will  be  up  to  the  Hall  to  visit  you  to-day,  I  think." 

Saying  that,  David  left  her,  and  went  back  into  the 
house.  He  had  nothing  more  to  say  to  her ;  his  mind 
was  filled  that  day  with  an  image  far  different  from  that 
of  Susan. 

It  was  yet  quite  early  in  the  morning.  Professor,  or 
President  Leighton  had  gone  into  his  parlor  for  a  mo- 
ment, to  make  some  preparation  previous  to  his  proceed- 
ing to  the  college,  or  to  remain  there  until  the  hour  ap- 
pointed when  the  faculty  were  to  wait  upon  him,  to  escort 
him  thither,  when  a  servant,  proceeding  in  advance  of 
Susan  into  his  presence,  announced  that  a  young  lady 
waited  without  for  admittance. 

At  Leighton's  request  Susan  was  shown  in.  She  came 
alone. 

This  is  the  same  man,  this  is  the  same  girl,  that  we 
saw  in  the  summer-time  down  by  the  sea.  But  both  are 
so  much  changed !  Susan  has  grown  taller ;  she  looks 
older,  fairer;  she  is  acquiring,  in  spite  of  griefs  and 


300  GETTING    ALONG. 

cares,  some  good  looks  which  belong  to  her ;  they  do  cer- 
tainly not  come  of  her  dress — they  have  not  been  put  on. 
She  has  not  the  repose  of  manner  which  is  sometimes  the 
grace  of  nature,  oftener  the  perfection  of  cultivation  ;  but 
she  moves  about  with  no  such  awkward  consciousness  of 
herself  and  her  awkwardness  as  we  have  sometimes  seen 
in  the  poor  child.  There  is  a  certain  attractiveness  in  her 
reserve  and  bearing.  Susan  is  herself,  and  that  self  is 
clearly  revealed — though,  in  these  respects  of  outward 
show,  now  more  clearly  to  others  than  to  her  own  sense. 

Mr.  Leighton  is  not  precisely  the  man  that  Susan 
looked  to  see.  He  is  younger ;  he  is  in  many  respects 
different.  She  knows  now,  when  she  sees  him,  what  she 
had  anticipated:  the  tall  figure,  in  the  old  cap,  and  stu- 
dent's dress,  and  slippers,  with  a  long  pipe  in  his  hand, 
or  a  book,  or  half  a  ream  of  paper,  looking  absently 
upon  her — abstracted,  as  if  she  had  disturbed  him  in 
thoughts  and  speculations  which  were  worth  a  hundred 
lives  like  hers.  Talking  to  her  as  if  all  the  while  he 
were  talking  to  himself  aloud,  and  she  were  only  a  sort 
of  illustration  picked  up  and  put  into  the  discourse,  half- 
carelessly  and  half  unconsciously. 

She  looked  for  such  an  one ;  but  him  she  did  not  see. 
She  perceived,  instead,  another  man — the  same  figure,  the 
same  face,  true ;  but  this  was  a  man  with  a  name — the 
president,  just  now,  of  the  St.  John's  College— a  man 
amongst  hosts  of  men.  his  equals,  but  chosen  above  others 
as  their  superior — not  a  student,  solitary,  living  in  an  old 
red  mill,  apparently  sustaining  no  relations  with  living 
men  and  actual  things.  He  was  a  well-dressed  gentle- 
man, vexed  with  no  distracting  question ;  a  milder,  hap- 
pier man ;  at  ease,  quiet,  and  glad  to  see  his  old  friend, 
Susan  Dillon. 

He  has  time  on  his  hands  just  now,  to  do  what  he  will 
with  it. 


THE    RISING    TIDE.  301 

Time  to  talk  with  Susan  about  her  father — to  draw 
from  her  willing,  and,  for  his  sake,  unfaltering  lips,  the 
story  of  the  old  man's  fate.  Time  to  question  and  to 
listen  in  regard  to  all  that  she  has  done,  felt,  and  seen, 
since  she  came  up  to  St.  John's  to  live.  But  he  says 
nothing  about  the  letter  that  she  wrote,  when  she  had 
determined  that  she  must  not  leave  the  Hall  to  go  to 
him  for  protection  and  a  home. 

Yet  it  is  uppermost  in  Susan's  mind,  and  she  must 
ask  the  question, — Did  he  receive  her  letter  ? 

And  when  Mr.  Leighton  answers  her,  she  is  not  satis- 
fied to  hear  him  say,  though  he  says  it  in  a  manner  that 
no  other  man  would  do — that  he  thinks  her  course  the 
wise  one — that  he  respects  her  for  her  choosing  thus, 
that  he  knows  it  must  be  so,  even  as  he  suspected  from 
the  first,  that  she  would  of  course  be  happier  there  with 
the  young  people.  She  is  not  satisfied,  though  he  says 
it  apparently — nay,  undoubtedly,  in  all  good  faith.  In- 
deed, for  that  very  reason  is  she  so  dissatisfied.  He  must 
not  think  that  her  own  happiness  has  been  secured  by 
remaining  at  the  Hall — that  her  own  inclinations  were  at 
all  consulted  when  she  declined  his  proffer  of  fatherly 
protection. 

Susan  has  quite  forgotten  Leah,  and  all  that  Leah  said 
yesterday  to  her.  She  has  forgotten  Clarence  and  all 
that  he  asserts.  She  practically  avows  her  disbelief,  or 
at  least  her  rejection,  of  what  they  both  have  told  her. 
She  shuts  her  eyes  while  speaking,  that  she  may  have 
the  student  in  the  old  cap,  and  calico  dress,  and  the 
frayed  slippers,  there  before  her,  and  not  this  man,  who, 
in  spite  of  his  words,  seems  like  a  stranger  to  her.  In 
deep  silence  Leighton  listens  to  her  words. 

"  Mr.  Leighton,  if  you  will  only  let  me  stay  now,  I  will 
stay  always.  Oh  how  I  wish  I  had  gone  when  you  asked 
me  !  All  would  have  been  well.  But  I  could  not  come. 


302  GETTING   ALONG. 

I  told  you  why  in  the  letter ;  or  I  said  something  about 
it.  I  knew  you  would  understand.  They  needed  me  so 
much,  I  thought.  They  said  so  :  they  say  so  yet.  They 
need  me  more  and  more — as  I  do  you !  I  am  not  going 
back  to  them.  I  need  not !  need  I  ?  You  say  that  I 
may  stay  with  you.  Do  you,  Mr.  Leighton  ?  I  will  be 
your  daughter,  as  you  said.  I  will  not  be  a  trouble  to 
you.  I  have  learnt  many  things.  I  can — " 

Mr.  Leighton  took  the  hand  of  Susan  and  held  it  in 
his  gently,  and  as  if  to  give  her  full  assurance  of  his  pro- 
tection. 

"  But  why  is  it  so,"  he  asked  ?  He  did  not  say  to 
her  "  be  calm,"  but  these  words  that  he  did  speak,  had 
the  effect  to  make  her  so.  QThe  poor  little  tempest- 
tossed  skiff  had  come  into  a  magnificent  harbor.  >» 

"  Because  .  .  .  because  ...  I  will  tell  you,  Mr 
Leighton,  in  a  moment — "  and  now  she  spoke  out  reso- 
lutely, "  because,  sir,  what  they  want  me  for,  is  Clarence." 

"  And  you — " 

"  No,  I  will  not !  I  said  so  yesterday.  I  said  I  could 
not  to  Mr.  Baldwin ;  but  he  would  not  take  that  as  an 
answer.  I  must  tell  him  again.  I  shall !  Just  what  I 
tell  you  .  .  .  He  has  been  very  kind  to  me — they  all 
have.  But  I  cannot  do  it — " 

"  You  cannot  give  yourself  to  Clarence,  you  mean, 
Susan." 

"  That  is  what  I  mean,  Mr.  Leightou.     I  cannot  do  it." 

With  pitying  and  wise  words  did  Mr.  Leighton  soothe 
her,  speaking  on  without  an  interruption  till  Susan  again 
became  calm.  He  gave  back  her  confidence  to  her — 
showed  her  that  there  was  no  cause  for  such  desperate 
emotion  or  alarm  as  she  evinced.  He  would  protect  her. 
Everybody  would — nay,  what  need  ?  she  could  protect 
herself.  Sure  he  was  that  no  living  man  would  choose 
to  wrong  her,  or  disturb  her.  Least  of  all  would  her 


A    REED    IN    THE    WIND.  303 

father's  old  friend,  Mr.  Baldwin — and  it  could  never  be 
that,  having  told  him  and  his  son  all  that  was  in  her 
heart,  they  would  choose  to  grieve  her  longer. 

And  having  soothed  and  quieted  her,  Mr.  Leighton 
went  on,  not  hurriedly  nor  briefly,  but  deliberately  and 
fully,  to  show  that  what  she  had  besought  of  him  was 
now,  in  this  manner  that  she  looked  for,  quite  beyond  his 
power  to  bestow — he  could  not  take  her  as  his  child  now 
under  his  protection — it  was  impossible. 

"  Susan,"  he  said  in  conclusion,  and  he  read  her  acqui- 
escence in  all  that  he  had  told  her — it  was,  she  clearly 
saw,  too  late  for  her  to  think  of  any  other  home  than  that 
she  had.  "  Susan,  I  know  to  whom  I  am  speaking.  I 
am  certain  that  you  will  go  back  to  the  Hall.  Like  a 
true  woman  you  will  complete  all  that  you  have  to  do 
there.  You  will  say  to  Mr.  Baldwin,  that  while  you  re- 
main in  his  house  you  will  be  his  child — that  hereafter, 
perhaps  in  five  years  from  now,  you  will  talk  with  him 
again  about  marrying  with  Clarence.  Tell  him  this  in 
the  hearing  of  Clarence,  and  if  he  is  what  I  judge  from 
your  description,  you  will  need  to  say  no  more.  He 
himself  will  not  only  assent  to  your  proposition,  he  will 
see  that  it  is  entirely  proper  and  just — and  will  respect 
you  the  more  for  the  deliberation  with  which  you  choose 
to  consider  so  important  an  event  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  me, 
Susan  ?" 

"  Five  years  ?"  said  Susan,  clinging  to  Mr.  Leighton's 
hand. 

Mr.  Baldwin  had  talked  of  years  in  this  connection, 
as  well  as  Mr.  Leighton — but  when  he  spoke  of  them 
they  had  made  no  impression  at  all  upon  her  mind  .  .  . 
Untold  hopes, — hopes  unmeasured,  now  grew  out  of  the 
five  years  which  the  president  was  recommending. 

"  Yes,  five  years  ...  It  is  not  a  long  time  for  one  so 
young  as  you  to  ask." 


304  GETTING    ALONG. 

"  You  are  going  to  live  here  in  St.  John's,  Mr. 
Leighton  ..."  said  Susan,  musingly ;  involuntarily 
she  gave  the  hand,  which  he  already  held,  more  entirely 
into  his  keeping — and  herself  with  it,  into  his  guidance. 

"  Yes,  Susan,  I  suppose  so." 

'•  And  Mr.  Falcon,  who  has  been  our  teacher,  is  going 
away.  I  must  have  other  teachers,  he  says  !"  Eagerly  she 
looked  at  Mr.  Leighton  for  an  answer  to  the  question 
which  she  thus  asked,  and  only  thus. 

"  Very  well,"  said  he  slowly,  understanding  all  that 
her  words  were  intended  to  convey.  "  I  see  how  it  will 
be.  I  am  nothing  better  in  the  eye  of  my  little  girl  than 
the  dilapidated  old  fellow  who  went  summering  in  a  mill 
with  the  rats.  My  little  sister  is  back  again  on  my 
hands.  And  I  cannot  get  rid  of  her.  Well,  well,  I  am 
in  debt  to  her  more  than  she  can  tell — or  I — she  gave 
me  some  bitter  herbs  that  made  me  strong  and  whole 
.  .  .  what !  you  have  forgotten  ?  well,  no  matter  ;  I  shall 
pay  the  debt  as  I  am  able  ...  It  would  almost  seem  as 
though  I  had  come  to  St.  John's  to  look  after  her,  in- 
stead of  two  or  three  hundred  young  men.  And  whether 
the  one  fact  or  the  other  will  prove  the  more  momentous, 
is  more  than  I  can  tell,  I  suspect." 

He  took  out  his  watch,  so  speaking,  and  looked  at  the 
hour. 

"  It  is  time  for  me  to  go,  if  I  am  not  to  stay  always," 
said  Susan,  rising  and  moving  from  him.  Instead  of  de- 
taining her,  after  the  manner  of  the  former  times,  which 
she  evidently  had  in  mind,  recalled  by  the  hint  she  con- 
sidered he  had  given  her,  as  he  used  to  do,  by  looking  at 
his  watch,  Mr.  Leighton  likewise  rose. 

"  I  have  yet  some  time  before  the  hour  of  my  engage- 
ment," he  said.  He  took  her  hand  then  and  led  her  from 
the  room,  and  so  they  went  down  the  stairs  together. 

"  Why  did  you  not  treat  me  to  a  shower  of  tears  to- 


THK    MAGNET.  305 

day  ?"  said  he,  as  they  went  out  into  the  street.  "  You 
neither  wept  when  you  came  in,  nor  when  you  told  me  of 
your  trouble,  nor  when  I  told  you  that  I  would  be  again 
your  teacher." 

"  I  have  no  tears  left,  Mr.  Leighton." 

"  I  am  right  glad  to  hear  it !"  Nevertheless  Leighton 
did  shudder  hearing  it.  "  What  a  strong-hearted  woman 
we  shall  have  in  our  little  Susan  !  Those  wild  sea-breezes 
gave  strength  to  her  as  to  all,  I  think,  who  have  known 
them.  A  sea-breeze  is  a  capital  house-cleaner,  too ;  it 
makes  a  sure  sweep  of  cob-webs;  spiders,  and  the  dead 
flies  that  died  in  captivity,  vanish  before  it.  You  and  I 
will  go  down  to  the  beach  some  day  again  and  think  of 
the  dear  friend  we  knew  there.  Indeed,  I  hope  we  shall 
go  often." 

"  Oh  but,  Mr.  Leighton,  if  I  had  only  never  gone  away 
from  the  beach  !  never  for  a  moment !  If  they  had 
never  come  down  there — not  one  of  them  !" 

"  There  was  no  other  way,"  he  answered,  soothingly. 
"  You  could  not  help  it,  Susan." 

How  well  he  understood,  how  well  he  comforted  her  ! 
He  knew  with  what  remorse  she  recalled  the  longing  and 
discontent  which  characterized  the  last  year's  residence 
upon  the  beach — he  would  bring  to  mind  the  recollec- 
tion that  her  final  departure  from  her  old  home,  and  all 
the  events  preparatory  to  it,  were  not  sought  and  volun- 
tary, but  ordained  and  inevitable. 

Together  they  now  went  along  the  wintry  streets. 
With  a  joyous  sense  of  safety,  of  security,  against  which 
no  evil  possibility  rose  up  in  her  mind  with  an  availing 
terror,  Susan  Dillon  walked  by  Mr.  Leighton's  side  ;  and 
the  five  years  of  which  he  had  been  speaking  seemed  in- 
deed to  cover  all  time,  to  fill  all  space ;  without  dread, 
without  presentiment,  she  went  forward  with  him. 

In  their  way  toward  the  Hall  was  the  garden  next  Pu- 
celli's. 


306 


GETTING    ALONG. 


LIL 

IT  was  during  the  school  hours,  but  it  was  a  festival 
day  in  the  Church,  and  the  scholars  and  their  teacher 
had  a  holiday.  Theresa,  the  nun,  went  down  into  the 
garden  that  was  called,  commonly,  after  Pucclli's  name — 
not  to  see  the  sun  rise,  for  the  sun  had  long  since  risen. 

It  was  a  strange  hour  to  choose,  if  she  went  out  to 
meditate  ;  the  silence  of  her  own  chamber,  or  the  quiet 
of  the  vacant  school-room,  had  better  served  such  purpose. 

She  had  chosen  the  garden,  however.  Probably  be- 
cause yesterday,  when  Stella  left  her,  she  said  something 
about  being  there  herself  at  some  such  hour  as  this. 

There  is  more  color  than  usual  in  the  nun's  face.  Long 
years  of  self-control,  habits  of  composure  and  reserve, 
seem  to  serve  her  not  as  they  should  to-day.  Before  she 
conies  into  the  walk  where  Mr.  Falcon  and  Stella  are,  she 
has,  for  many  moments,  succeeded  in  avoiding  them  and 
their  observation — she  has  delayed  the  meeting.  But 
now  she  is  advancing. 

And  she  has  thrown  aside  her  veil,  for  this  walk  is  in 
the  shadow  of  the  high  stone-wall ;  there  are  no  strangers 
near,  she  need  not  hide  her  face  from  the  eyes  of  friends. 
She  moves  slowly,  it  would  almost  seem  feebly  at  first, 
but  when  she  sees  that  Stella  has  observed  and  recog- 
nized her,  and  that  she  and  her  companion  are  coming 
rapidly  towards  her,  a  strange,  unlooked-for,  unhoped-for 
strength  descends  upon  her ;  her  step  is  firm,  her  move- 
ment stately;  but  her  eyes,  as  she  approaches,  are  not  on 
Stella — they  are  fixed  on  Mr.  Falcon. 

"  That  is  she,"  Stella  is  saying  to  him  as  they  draw 
near;  but  she  looks  not  on  him  whom  she  addresses. 
"  More  than  a  mother  she  has  been  to  me.  Saw  you  ever 
a  lovelier  face?" 


THE    OLD    STORY   READ    ANEW.  307 

"  Never  but  one,"  answers  Mr.  Falcon,  with  a  deeper 
meaning  than  Stella  Gammon  may  guess  or  fathom,  though 
in  her  woman  heart  she  thinks  that  she  understands  it. 
Outwardly,  how  calm  he  is ;  inwardly,  for  one  moment, 
how  disturbed,  how  confused,  how  at  a  loss  as  to  what  he 
shall  do. 

In  jest,  Stella  called  him  old — he  is  not  young — but 
his  eyes  are  undimmed  as  in  their  "first  youth,"  while 
they  look  upon  this  nun.  A  new  vision  of  his  youth  is 
there  before  him. 

He  seems,  in  his  own  silent  way,  to  be  questioning  her ; 
and  the  nun  not  only  hears  him,  but  she  answers — as 
silently.  It  is  hardly  needful  that  Stella  should  say  be- 
tween this  man  and  woman,  who  for  her  sake  are  so  well 
content  to  be  fast  friends  on  the  moment,  mere  formal 
words  of  introduction ;  the  nun  half  smiles  as  she  does 
so,  yet  she  retreats  from  the  silent  greeting,  already 
given,  and  speaks  to  the  stranger  as  becomes  a  nun. 

Therefore,  she  is  not  the  love  of  Mr.  Falcon's  youth. 
She  remembers  not  that  by-gone  time ;  she  tells  him  that 
he  also  has  forgotten  it.  He  is  obedient  to  her  will — he 
has  forgotten  it,  he  replies.  And  with  no  pang — no  long- 
ing— no  regret.  No  poison  lingers  in  the  long-healed 
wound,  and  not  a  scar  is  there  to  tell  of  it.  He  compre- 
hends why  she  has  come,  daring  to  revive  the  remem- 
brance of  the  past;  and  for  this  reason  John  Falcon  loves 
her  anew,  but  not  as  once.  Not  as  he  loves  the  youthful 
woman,  resplendent  in  the  glory  of  her  youth  and  prom- 
ise, by  his  side ;  he  never  loved  her  so. 

If  there  is  a  doubt  in  the  man's  heart,  she,  this  nun, 
would  remove  it :  for  this  purpose  she  has  come.  If,  in 
taking  the  girl  who  was  her  pupil,  unto  himself,  there  is 
one  lingering  regret  in  his  pure  mind,  a  solitary  wish  for 
the  unravelment  of  a  mystery — a  dark  mystery  it  might 
have  proved  to  a  mind  less  full  of  light  than  his,  she 


308  GETTING    ALONG. 

knows  full  well — he  shall  be  answered  He  shall  never 
think,  he  shall  never  need  to  wonder,  how  was  this  Stella 
born  ?  She,  the  mother  of  his  bride,  is  before  them — 
and  he  knows  all  that  she  can  say. 

Falcon  smiles  to  hear  her,  she  who  will  be  his  bride, 
and  holier,  his  wife  forevermore — to  hear  her  when  she 
calls  this  solitary  woman,  this  nun  renunciative  of  the 
world,  "  Mother."  He  smiles  graciously  and  gladly.  But 
he  has  few  words  to  say,  perhaps  because  she  is  a  Catho- 
lic, flits  dimly  across  Stella's  mind ;  she  wishes  he  would 
forget  that,  and  be  a  little  more  agreeable  !  .  .  .  She  does 
not  know  how  busy  they  who  walk  beside  her  are  with  all 
their  thoughts — how  one  has  given  her  away  but  now,  how 
the  other  has  received  her  as  a  doubly-consecrated  gift ! 
'  Does  not  guess  that  words  crowd  so  fast  for  speech  upon 
nim  that  he  cannot  choose  between  them — that  whatever 
he  may  say,  it  is  not  that  which  he  would  utter ;  that  if 
he  spoke  the  thought  uppermost,  she  would  listen  to  such 
speech  as  this :  "  You  do  well,  call  her  mother — for  she 
is  your  mother  !"  This  he  must  not  say.  Nevertheless, 

in  his  heart  Falcon  is  glad  and  thankful. 

****** 

Along  that  shadowed  walk  two  other  forms  are  moving. 
There  is  no  reason  why  they  should  not  be  there.  Yet  it 
is  almost  wonderful  that  there  they  should  be  walking. 

We  know,  however,  that  wise  as  Mr.  Leighton  is,  calm 
as  he  is  in  all  his  acceptations  of  whatever  the  day  brings 
to  him,  whether  loss  of  wife,  bestowment  of  honors,  or 
the  teaching  of  a  child,  fit  as  he  may  be  to  guide  our 
Susan  through  a  crisis  as  with  firm  hand  he  has  done  this 
day,  she  is  at  the  present  hour  the  best  of  all  guides  for 
him ; — of  all  St.  John's  could  give  him,  were  the  city 
searched  through  and  through  again. 

For  she  leads  him  in  this  walk.  They  come  up  across 
the  garden.  They  enter  the  shadows  at  a  point  past  which 


THE    NUN'S    INTERPRETATION.  309 

Stella  and  the  nun  and  Mr.  Falcon  have  at  this  moment 
moved. 

"  That  is  Stella,  Mr.  Leightou,"  Susan  says — her  voice 
is  low,  but  not  hushed ;  its  tone,  clear  and  eager,  must, 
under  any  circumstances,  arrest  attention.  And  it  needs 
not  that  hour  and  occasion  that  a  trumpet  should  sound 
two  names  like  these,  names  which  stand  for  so  much,  in. 
order  to  bring  the  two  parties  face  to  face. 

The  president,  from  whose  side  Susan  rapidly  advances, 
stands  like  a  statue  fronting,  in  what  mood  none  who  look 
on  him,  though  they  looked  in  calmer  scrutiny  than  was 
now  with  any  of  them  possible — fronting,  what  to  him  is 
an  inconceivable  revelation — a  revelation  as  sudden  as  it 
is  inconceivable. 

Stella  has  taken  his  hand,  which  in  the  first  second  of 
their  meeting,  before  he  glanced  at  the  nun,  he  proffered 
to  her.  But  she  has  let  it  fall  again — not  offended,  yet 
greatly  surprised.  There  seems  no  life  in  it — for  her,  it 
is  motionless  and  heavy  in  her  grasp.  And  she  sees  now, 
but'not  clearly,  why  it  is  so — he  beholds  her  no  longer — 
that  greeting  was  over  before  she  imagined.  And  Stella's 
eyes  glance  astonished  from  the  student,  who  is  now,  she 
knows,  the  president,  and  from  him  to  the  nun  her  teacher, 
and  back  again  ;  and  to  and  fro — and  cannot  tell  what  this 
all  means,  all  this  that  has  happened  in  a  moment.  But 
now  the  nun  is  speaking  .  .  .  what  is  it  she  is  saying  .  .  . 

"  Give  her  your  hand,  Leigh  ton."  She  alone  is  calm — 
this  rocky,  statue-like  exterior  of  the  President  does  not 
seem  like  calmness — but  if  it  is,  it  is  of  another  quality, 
and  has  another  source,  than  that  of  Theresa  .  .  .  The 
president  must  have  yet  another  moment  before  he  can 
collect  himself  .  .  .  Stella  finds  herself  alone  there  with 
them  in  the  shadowed  walk.  Mr.  Falcon  has  gone  out 
of  sight,  and  has  taken  Susan  with  him. 

Looking  from  her  father  to  her  mother,  Stella  cannot 


310  GETTING   ALONG. 

tell  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this.  She  doubts,  she 
suspects — but  she  is  not  enlightened,  for  Theresa  speaks  : 

"  Give  her  your  hand,  Leighton.  You  will  find  what 
I  have  done  for  her.  Complete  the  work,  my  friend." 

"  Alice  !  ...  it  is  impossible — and  yet  could  I  mis- 
take you  !" 

"  I  am  Theresa."  The  voice  was  passionless,  but  in  the 
words  was  hidden  an  unfathomable  depth  of  feeling.  "  I 
am  a  nun.  But  she,  there,  beside  you — that  is  Stella — 
your  daughter.  Tell  me,  have  I  not  given  you  the  crown 
to  your  honor  ?  You  are  more  in  debt  to  your  daughter 
than  I  can  tell  this  day.  Some  day  you  may  yourself 
discover  it.  Search  her  brain  and  heart,  I  give  you  a 
true  woman  for  your  child,  Mark ;  and  so  I  have  done. 
<  Hail  and  farewell !'  " 

"  Alice !  ...  go  not."  She  had  turned  partly  away, 
as  if  indeed  to  go  at  once,  but  at  Leighton's  word  she 
paused  again. 

"Have  you  received  your  child?"  she  asked — she 
looked  at  Stella;  all  her  love,  the  pent-up  love  of  years 
which  had  been  ceaseless  in  its  unsuspected  guardianship, 
beamed  from  her  eyes. 

"  Stella,"  said  Leighton — he  drew  her  within  his  arms 
and  folded  her  an  instant  in  them ;  then  they  unclasped — 
she  stood  free  before  him;  but  so  Stella  did  not  remain, 
for  she  gave  him  her  hand,  and  looked  up  proudly 
through  her  tears.  "  She  was  always  a  mother  to 
ine  .  .  .  father,''  the  last  word,  the  name,  burst  from  her 
lips  with  a  triumphant  sound,  the  craving  of  a  lifetime 
was  answered  here. 

"  Alice,  you  had  your  way ;  I  mine.  We  will  not 
question  one  another  in  regard  to  it.  But  now  I  ask  you, 
as  I  would  not  in  my  youth,  leave  me  not — go  not  away 
again." 

"  Say  not  thict  to  me,  Leightou,"  said  the  nun — "  all 


FALCON    AN    HEIR.  311 

now  is  over.  Think  nothing  more  of  me.  I  have  only 
desired  to  enrich  and  beautify  your  life.  Recall  the  past, 
if  you  must  do  so.  I  need  say  no  more.  The  cause  that 
was  potent  and  availing  to  separate  us  then,  remains  ! 
What  then  were  all  this  expiation  ?" 

"  Mother  !  mother  !  this  must  not  be  !"  but  the  nun  re- 
treated before  the  hasty  advance  of  Stella. 

'  Touch  me  not,'  was  in  her  mein  and  gesture — and  in- 
terpreting it,  her  child  paused  reverently,  and  said  no 
more. 

"  I  have  called  you  child  and  daughter,"  said  Theresa, 
observant  and  well  pleased.  "  I  have  led  you  by  the 
light  of  such  wisdom  as  was  given  me ;  I  can  say  and  do 
no  further.  I  am  not  my  own,  nor  am  I  even  yours, 
my  child ;  save  as  I  always  have  been.  Let  us  all  make 
haste,  and  go  back  to  our  labors.  But  .  .  .  John 
Falcon !" 

Leighton  started  when  he  heard  that  name — still  more 
was  he  amazed  when,  on  the  approach  of  Falcon,  the  nun 
took  his  hand  and  said  : 

"  Receive  him,  Mark  Leighton.  And  whatever  he  asks, 
for  my  sake  bestow." 

"  Falcon,  ask  !"  said  Leighton,  turning  slowly  towards 
him.  "  I  have  grown  suddenly  so  rich,  man,  ask  largely — 
ask  to-day.  I  may  become  covetous  and  selfish  hereafter." 

"  If  I  ask  all  that  you  have,  Mr.  Leighton,"  began 
Falcon. 

The  frank  and  hearty  voice  fell  not  on  a  deaf  ear. 
The  President  for  the  moment  seemed  verily  to  be  lifted 
out  of  himself.  His  heart  in  that  moment  was  the  heart 
of  a  child. 

"  Not  my  coat,  but  my  cloak  also !  .  .  .  What — our 
daughter  ?  Alice,  is  it  our  Stella  that  he  asks  ?  Be  it 
so,  John  Falcon,"  he  continued  more  gravely — and  not 
without  emotion — t:old  friend,  this  is  sudden.  Alice! 


312  GETTING    ALONG. 

she  is  gone !  .  .  .  Well,  Susan,  little  Susan,  come  here ; 
\ve  were  walking  along  this  dark  walk  together  I  believe — 
and  you  were  somewhat  troubled  .  .  .  Lift  up  your  head, 
child !  hope  everything  from  life — I  bid  you  who  have 
hoped  too  little.  Stella,  come  !  of  what  are  you  thinking, 
my  daughter  ?  Absolute  or  conditioned,  my  young  war- 
rior ?  where  are  you,  my  child  ?" 

"  In  the  world,  Mr.  Leighton." 

"  I  am  your  father,  Stella." 

"  Father,  I  am  in  the  world,"  repeated  Stella,  hold- 
ing fast  his  hand  as  the  more  child-like  Susan  did. 

<:  Well,  tell  me  what  this  highway  robbery  means  ? 
This  Falcon,  this  John  here,  what  has  he  done  for  you  ? 
I  prophesy  you  are  nowhere  in  the  vicinity  of  the  place 
where  I  left  you." 

"  Father." 

"  Yes,  that  is  a  good  beginning,  niy  child.     Go  on." 

"  He  has  shown  me  the  way  to  the  Infinite." 

"  No  doubt  he  has — and  ^through  what  a  wilderness 
does  it  lie.  Did  he  tell  you  that  ?'' 

Stella  made  no  answer — she  had  no  need — there  was 
greater  need  for  silence  in  all  those  hearts — and  so  Mr. 
Leighton  signified  when  he  turned  to  Susan,  and  re- 
marked : 

"  This  path  is  a  strange  one  for  a  winter  day.  Lead 
on,  Susan.  I  have  heard*  and  read  of  worse  guides  than 
you." 


LIII. 

THE  five  years  of  patient  waiting,  which  Leightou 
enjoined  on  Susan  Dillon,  have  not  yet  worn  away.  But 
they  are  vanishing  rapidly. 

Let  us  for  the  last  time  make  a  survey  of  tlic  progress 


LAWS    WRITTEN    ON    TABLES    OF    STONE.  313 

of  the  several  characters  whose  development  the  reader 
has  been  tracing. 

When  Colonel  Wheaton  came  back  to  St.  John's  for 
his  bride,  he  found  Isidore  Baldwin  precisely  where  he 
left  her.  Clad  in  her  proprieties,  in  all  '  linen  decency,' 
walking  in  the  narrowest  path  of  a  strictest  conformity  ; 
persevering  in  the  show,  steadfast  in  the  maintenance  of 
all  the  circumstance,  belonging  to  her  place,  nature,  and 
station.  And  he  married  her. 

A  long  life  is  before  them.  Natures  like  theirs  are 
not  readily  exhausted.  /  Emotions  do  not  tell  on  nerves 
of  iron,  hearts  of  stone,  and  brains  of  brass.-\  Such 
women  and  such  men,  whatever  their  dissipation  may  be, 
are  not  dissipated  rapidly. 

They  live  long  to  give  laws  to  society  which  other 
people,  who  have  brain  and  heart  to  sacrifice,  die  en- 
deavoring to  keep  :  laws  that  indeed  are  written  in  blood, 
the  blood  of  those  who  uphold  and  obey  them,  and  never 
dare  to  dream  of  overleaping  them,  or  of  infringing  them 
a  hair's-breadth.  These  law  reverencers  die  of  suffoca- 
tion, sometimes ;  sometimes  of  a  heart  disease  for  which 
there  is  no  remedy — but  not  often  :  it  is  more  frequently 
a,  plague  that  carries  them  away — the  deadly  miasma 
that  floats  in  the  air,  destroys  them. 

These  law-givers,  these  autocrats  of  the  republic,  live 
truly  in  the  world,  and  are  not  of  it — but  in  no  sacred 
sense.  You  say  that  the  refinement  which  they  boast  is 
not  refinement,  but  pure  animalism — you  say  again  that 
they  are  dead  in  a  very  essential  respect,  and  you  prove 
it  by  adducing  the  divine  laws  of  life ;  you  say  Life  can- 
uot  exist  in  that  rarefied  atmosphere.  You  say  that  ex- 
clusion like  theirs  is  exile — that  withdrawal  is  banish- 
ment more  fearful  than  has  befallen  those  convicts  of 
Siberia.  You  say  it  is  inevitable — that  they  must,  these 
autocrats  of  the  republic,  far  as  they  seem  now,  not  from 

VOL.  n.  14 


314  GETTING    ALONG. 

the  probability,  but,  the  possibility — that  they  must 
some  day  know  what  they  did  when  they  exchanged  for 
cold  reptilian  blood,  the  warm  blood  of  humanity.  That 
they  must  discern,  not  their  mistake,  or  blunder,  but 
their  loss  and  shame,  when  they  discover  what  it  was  to 
change  the  Image  of  God  into  the  images  of  gods — ex- 
cluding the  divine  life,  and  thus  removing  far  away  the 
thought  or  purpose  of  fealty,  for  even  such  a  life  as  hea- 
thenish idolaters  might  comprehend  and  worship.  You 
say  this,  reader  ?  Look  around  you  then  !  Behold,  you 
have  no  need  to  "  girdle  the  globe"  with  a  road  for  the 
iron  horse,  that  you  may  set  out  in  search  of  Colonel 
Wheaton  and  his  wife, — what  if  prototype  and  antitype 
are  all  around  you  in  this  Christian  land — in  this  New 
World  of  the  Pilgrims  ?  I  say  it  may  so  chance. 

Miss  Mar  is  a  Sister  of  Charity,  and  an  indefatigable 
worker  of  tapestries,  and  clerical  embroideries.  She 
never  wearies  bowing  down  before  her  graven  images. 
And  day  by  day  she  prays,  with  less  of  hope,  for  the  con- 
version of  Stella,  (for  whose  worldly  ease  and  comfort  she 
however  has  been  careful  to  provide,)  and,  with  more  of 
energy,  for  the  spread  of  De  Lisle  Layard's  influence. 

And  her  prayers,  it  would  almost  seem,  are  answered. 
If  there  is  a  rising  man  in  the  Church,  it  is  De  Lisle. 
The  eyes  of  his  brethren  in  the  Church,  and  of  his  fathers 
in  the  faith,  are  upon  him.  Let  no  reader's  heart  harbor 
a  doubt  concerning  him,  although  he  made  no  convert  of 
David  Baldwin,  and  failed  greatly,  to  his  own  thinking, 
when  he  sought  to  find  for  his  friend  a  place  in  Stella's 
affections.  Beyond  question  he  will  prosper  .  .  .  Will 
grow  great  and  powerful,  unless,  says  experience,  (who  is 
inclined  to  croak.)  unless  it  happens  with  him  as  it  some- 
times does, — (experience  says  not  rarely,) — with  men  of  his 
mind  and  habit ;  that,  grown  secure  at  last  in  all  his  ways, 


THE    TURNING   OF    THE    WHEEL.  315 

and  confident  in  the  confidence  that  his  feet  have  not  been 
set  in  slippery  places,  his  "  vaulting  ambition  shall  o'er- 
leap  itself."  Such  a  calamity  has  as  yet,  we  know,  not 
overtaken  him,  and  it  would  hardly  serve  us  here  to  affect 
the  gift  of  prophecy. 

Leah  Chilton  lies  in  her  grave  in  the  St.  John's  ceme- 
tery. An  elaborate  monument  was  long  since  erected  as 
her  headstone ;  but  it  cannot  tell,  nothing  can  tell,  those 
whose  pride  penned  her  epitaph,  the  quiet  beauty,  the 
rare  holiness,  nay  even,  the  greatness  of  her  brief  life  and 
history.  rEpitaphs  are  not  always  falsehoods. )  The  hero- 
ism that  m  another  sphere,  where  action  would  have  been 
demanded  of  her,  not  prevented  and  annulled,  would 
surely  have  shone  out  to  the  great  wonder  of  such  eyes 
as  can  see.  But  not,  no,  never  in  any  case,  to  those  of 
Horace  Chilton  or  his  mother. 

Who  are  of  the  moving  spirits  in  St.  John's.  The 
long-closed  house  in  the  City  Square  is  now  again  thrown 
open.  Its  lights  stream  down  the  avenue.  Glorious 
with  gas  is  that  stone  palace. 

Mrs.  Chilton's  hope  of  years  has  its  abundant  realiza- 
tion. The  diamonds  and"  brocades  are  hers  again.  Her 
table  is  resplendent  with  crystal,  and  gold,  and  silver. 
Her  fetes  are  an  astonishment. 

The  imbecile  banker  dotes  on  his  wife  ...  oh  how 
he  dotes  !  St.  John's  has  rubbed  its  doubting  eyes,  and 
recovered  from  its  wonderment,  and  accepted  a  new 
queen ;  the  wonder  of  a  past  generation  is  revived  in 
this.  And  more  a  marvel  is  she,  standing  amidst  the 
strange  havoc  and  disruption  of  the  present  moment, 
than  in  the  first  rising  of  her  day  :  for  though  hardly  the 
quarter  of  a  century  has  passed  since  then,  the  world 
has  grown  very  old  in  those  few  years.  The  children  of 
to-day  may  well  look  up  to  her,  wanting  a  better  model. 


316  GETTING    ALONG. 

and  well  may  learn  of  her,  and  seek  to  be  like  her,  mak- 
ing to  themselves  a  law  and  order  which  their  uninstruct- 
ed  and  yet  longing  eyes  know  not  how  they  shall  else- 
where find.  But  will  not  the  Herald  of  the  Dawn  come 
to  them,  ere  the  Pay  break,  and  show  them  a  true  woman- 
hood ?  and  teach  them,  the  new  heirs  of  Freedom,  that 
the  question  of  Slavery  is  one  more  profound  than  can 
be  answered  by  the  proper  adjustment  of  races,  and  the 
scales  of  Shylock  ? 

Horace  Chilton  is  ...  Horace  Chilton.  The  word 
has  no  divine  significance  ! 

No  architect — no  engineer — no  workman — not  a  son — 
but  a  curious  sort  of  nondescript  is  he,  of  large  growth — 
to  be  discerned  by  the  naked  eye,  perhaps — not  yet  too 
common  for  such  discernment  in  the  observation  of  the 
thoughtful. 

Sometimes  he  is  an  artist.  A  few  of  his  gems  adorn 
the  walls  of  his  mother's  library,  and  the  parlors  of  his 
fashionable  friends.  He  was  even  once  persuaded  to 
send  an  anonymous  contribution  to  the  exhibition,  which 
the  "  unsuspecting"  committee  covered  with  laudation, 
and  wrote  down  first  upon  their  catalogue  of  prizes.  But 
there  were  some  critics,  so  unappreciative,  sad  clowns 
they  were,  without  taste  or  cultivation,  as  to  laugh  in 
the  face  of  the  committee  on  account  of  their  discern- 
ment. 

Sometimes  Horace  is  a  poet,  and  writes  verses  for  his 
friends,  which  lose  their  way,  and  fall  into  the  hands  of 
editors,  who  greet  him  as  the  poet  for  whom  the  world 
has  looked  so  long.  But,  somehow,  the  universal  greet- 
ing is  somewhat  slow,  considering  how  great  a  fact  this 
is,  if  fact  it  be. 

He  is,  in  short,  an  extraordinary  geuius ;  and,  as  such, 
I  can  locate  him  nowhere.  There  is  no  discerning  the 


THE    RENEWED    BRANCHES.  317 

signs  of  bis  times.  (If  he  had  died  in  Harlem,  we  might 
have  visited  the  grave  of  a  blighted  and  unhappy  genius, 
and  planted  a  violet  there — weeping,  it  may  be,  for  the 
hard  fate  of  his  aspiring  youth  .  .  .  He  is  unmarried 
yet;  but  does  the  reader  think  that  his  heart  is  broken  ? 
— that  he  has  vowed  himself  to  eternal  celibacy  on  ac- 
count— of — Isidore  ?"  — • — 

Wordsworth  Vane  is  again  living  in  St.  John's.  He  has 
a  home  at  last — it  is  under  the  roof  of  Mr.  Tree.  Some- 
times he  and  Lucia  talk  of  Italy  while  they  work,  and 
dream,  and  look  on  life  and  on  each  other,  with  the  rev- 
erent gaze  of  perfect  faith  and  love,  and  of  perpetual  youth. 

They  certainly  will  go  abroad.  They  must  see  Italy. 
The  desire  grows  upon  them  both ;  and,  when  they  go, 
it  will  assuredly  be  together — for  -together  they  are  al- 
ways, They  are  one.  But  something  besides  sight- 
seeing claims  them  yet — "Will  and  little  Hose ;  and  they 
are,  besides,  in  other  bonds,  the  tenderest  of  love,  to 
their  father,  Mr.  Tree. 

/Roughly  shaken  in  the  wind  of  fortune  has  he  been,  to 
speak  in  figure ;  but  there  was  strength  in  him  that  could 
endure  the  shaking,  and.  indeed,  with  a  sort  of  triumph 
he  has  borne  it.  Many  of  his  branches,  the  oldest,  those 
of  which  he  boasted  in  his  youth,  have  fallen  from  him  ; 
but  soft  green  moss  lies,  close  and  warm,  round  the  old 
roots,  and  fresh  boughs,  covered  with  new  verdure,  have 
come  out  into  the  warm  air  and  sunlight,  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  broken  crown — and  they  all  point,  with  arms  up- 
lifted, to  the  infinite  heaven.  Indeed,  it  has  almost  hap- 
pened to  him  as  it  did  in  patriarchal  times  with  Job. 

Let  no  voice  ask  me  if  Lucia  ever  became  famous,  and 
Will  a  shining  light  in  his  profession,  and  if  Vane's  pic- 
tures are  of  the  sort  that  sell.  If  I  might,  I  would  not 
answer.  Know  ye,  they  had  the  Life.  I  keep  no  haber- 


318  GETTING   ALONG. 

dasher's  shop.     I  know  not  what  their  raiment  is,  nor 
where  they  buy  it. 

Miss  Watson  at  the  Elms  has  not  yet  exhausted  her 
thoughts  :  of  the  making  of  books,  in  very  truth,  there  is 
no  end,  as  long  ago  was  said.  Her  son  is  growing  up 
under  her  vigilant  care  ;  his  mother  has  long  since  gone 
the  way  of  all  the  living ;  the  mortgage  that  was  on  the 
Elms  lies  there  no  longer — the  little  property  is  free 
again ;  but  young  Herder  has  yet  to  be  educated.  There 
is  occasion,  therefore,  for  Miss  Watson's  labor  still. 

Dr.  Borg  would  fain  aid  this  "  extraordinary  woman," 
who  has  continued  to  grow  more  extraordinary  in  his 
eyes  since  the  days  when  she  rebuked  him  for  his  trivial 
criticism  of  the  young  world  of  his  adoption — not  quite 
sufficiently,  to  his  mind,  disguising  its  stalwart  limbs  in 
the  old  world's  cast-off  finery  ;  he  even  would  assist  her 
by  his  continual  presence  and  sympathy,  as  she  goes  on 
her  journey  of  life.  But — looking  in  her  son's  face,  Miss 
Watson  sees  another  image,  which  makes  her  smile — 
somewhat  sadly,  it  is  true — yet  who  sees  any  weakness 
and  failing  of  a  valiant-hearted  purpose  in  that  sadness? 
as  she  kindly  waives  the  advance  and  proffer.  Borg  is  a 
human  being;  and  never  did  men  or  women  look  into  her 
face,  or  listen  to  her  words,  without  in  some  manner  re- 
ceiving a  better  idea  of  the  whole  race,  perhaps,  them- 
selves included,  than  they  had  before ;  and,  therefore,  the 
Doctor  is  always  her  friend — and  she  remains  forever  his 
astonishment. 

The  nun  is  a  dweller  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven — but  it 
is  on  earth,  and  in  the  flesh.  In  a  convent,  in  a  palace, 
in  a  hovel,  it^were  all  the  same — dead  or  living,  it  were 
all  the  same. 

Leighton  has  his  college  and  his  cares — his  honors  and 


A    SABBATH    PALM.  310 

emoluments  — and,  what  -is  better,  some  faitli  in  man, 
some  growing  hope  for  woman.  If  any  half-dead  reader 
recognizes  in  himself  the  symptoms  of  Leightou's  disease, 
let  him  go  into  the  solitude  of  a  sea-beaten  mill,  and,  with- 
out doubt,  God  will  send  an  angel  to  minister  unto  him. 

No  more  of  Violet  and  Silsey.  The  sweet,  fair  proph- 
ecy of  all  their  future  lies  in  the  love  that  Violet  came 
finally  to  give  Miss  Watson. 

And  Stella  Cammon,  who  was  born  again 

Softly  let  us  tread  away.  *  *  * 

It  was  with  Susan  Dillon  that  this  book  begun ;  with 
her  let  it  end. 

Those  five  years  of  which  Mr.  Leighton  spoke  have,  as 
was  stated  above,  not  yet  passed  away.  But  Susan  has 
ceased  thinking  of  the  flight  of  time. 

Not  long  ago,  Clarence  Baldwin  was  entered  at  the 
college  as  a  student.  Susan  daily  shares  his  thoughts. 
She  is  the  leader  of  them  still. 

She,  too,  has  been  a  student  since  we  last  looked  upon 
her.  And  to  a  better  purpose  than  we  hardly  dared  to 
think.  From  many  sources  she  has  gathered  strength 
and  wisdom.  In  the  unpretending  house  where  Stella 
and  Falcon  carry  forward  their  great  design  with  patient 
perseverance  towards  perfection  of  fulfilment,  gradually, 
but  surely,  as  all  great  works  are  done,  she  has  learned 
many  a  lesson,  and,  chief  among  them  all,  that  of  acqui- 
escence and  submission — demanding,  however,  as  is  sure- 
ly her  indefeasible  right,  of  every  day  that  passes,  the 
best  gift  it  can  bestow.  And  of  the  college  president 
such  other  lessons,  the  best  that  he  can  give,  as  furnish 
her  inind  well.  Her  heart  rests  in  a  Sabbath  calm. 
What  can  it  mean  ? 

She  reads  the  letters  David'writes  her  from  abroad, 
not  as  she  reads  the  note  he  wrote  her  when  she  lived 


320  GETTING   ALONG. 

down  in  the  lonely  cabin  on  the  wild  and  desolate  sea- 
beach,  though  there  is  vastly  more  affection  now,  speak- 
ing through  his  words,  than  her  eyes  had  dared  to  read 
in  those  of  that  poor  note. 

She  places  no  great  estimate  upon  the  utterances. 
She  knows  he  is  a  stranger  in  a  strange  and  foreign  laud 
— far  from  home  ;  well  she  knows  how  the  heart  in  such 
a  case  longs  for  and  will  find  expression  for  itself,  and 
that  it  hardly  heeds  in  its  necessity  what  ear  shall  hear 
the  tale.  This  experience  has'been  hers  as  well  as  his. 

Susan  writes  to  him.  They  are  the  letters  of  an  ex- 
panding brain,  and  a  well-controlled,  warm,  unselfish 
heart.  She  writes  almost  nothing  of  herself — he  would 
not  have  it  so ;  her  letters,  in  this  respect,  do  not  satisfy, 
they  disappoint  him.  It  is  all  of  Clarence  and  his  father, 
and  sometimes  of  Isidore,  that  she  writes.  It  is  chiefly 
of  Clarence,  of  his  activity,  his  industry,  of  his  noble 
nature  ;  she  takes  pains  to  recall  for  David  all  that  his 
twin-brother  says  that  will  illustrate  the  various  and  fine 
development  his  nature  is  now  having.  Of  his  good 
deeds  wrought,  the  spirit  that  pervades  them  ;  of  his  im- 
pulses, his  ardor  in  the  pursuits  and  aspirations  of  man- 
hood— of  these  things  she  writes  much  and  eloquently. 

By-and-bye,  it  happens,  while  he  journeys  on  through 
the  old  world,  rich  and  glorious  in  the  records,  and  the  tro- 
phies, and  splendors  of  the  past,  the  gorgeous  day  whose 
sun  has  set,  that  he  comes  to  look  with  anxiety  and  even 
with  impatience  for  the  arrival  of  these  letters  which 
breathe  the  breath  of  a  new  world  and  a  new  life  upon 
him.  They  are,  each  and  all,  to  him  strangely  welcome ; 
they  are  strangely  prized ;  he  begins  to  question  within 
himself  how  do  his  letters  go  to  them  at  home — nay,  to 
search  well  his  thought,  how  do  they  go  to  her,  even  to 
Susan  ?  are  they  welcome  ?  are  they  prized  ?  Why  is 
he  lingering  on  this  magnificent  ship  of  the  Past  that  lies 


THE    EMBARKATION.  .321 

in  port  and  will  sail  forth  never  more  to  the  conquest, 
any  whither,  or  at  whatever  call?  Sea-birds  flit  about 
the  gallant  masts,  but  their  songs  cannot  lure  that  vessel 
forth  again ;  the  wind  rattles  among  the  cordage  and 
shakes  the  sails,  but  the  Will  is  not  in  them,  it  does  not 
pace  the  decks,  that  the  great  craft  should  move  forth 
in  state  again  and  bear  down  on  the  Future.  But  this 
youth,  loitering  on  the  deck,  he  sees  the  fluttering  sails — 
he  sees  the  swinging  ropes — unavailable  forever — the 
wind  embraces  him — he  hears  the  songs  of  sea-birds ! 
It  may  be  with  hesitation  and  reluctance,  but  he  must 
depart  from  your  decks^iighty  ship  of  the  Past  that  liest 
immovable  in  the  harbor  of  the  Present.-  It  may  be 
with  doubt,  and  many  a  sighing  regret,  that  he  looks  up 
to  the  masts  and  sails  which  shall  trace  no  more  their 
adventurous  progress  on  the  blue  sky,  or  the  unresting 
sea.  No  more  sleep,  no  more  dreaming  under  the  shadow 
of  those  bleaching  sails !  a  craft  that  cuts  the  water  in 
its  swift  onward  progress — that  leaves  its  broad  track 
on  the  sea  while  it  spreads  its  great  wings  to  the  wind, 
goes  forth ;  and  with  her  he  must  go. 

Softly  fades  from  sight  the  vision  of  great  glories  that 
are  hastening  to  decay — before  him  lies  an  new  chaotic 
world,  a  mighty  heap  of  treasure,  a  wilderness  of  riches, 
an  unguessed  capacity,  an  irresistible  desire,  an  unimagin- 
ed  destiny.  The  Future  beckons  to  him.  With  this 
capacity,  this  desire,  these  riches,  let  him  go  into  the 
world  and  build — let  him  sail  into  the  Future  and  dis- 
cover. 

David  returned  to  St.   John's  without  warning.     He 

sent  before  him  no  harbinger  of  his  approach. 

****** 

It  was  the  day  after  Clarence  had  passed  his  examina- 
tion preparatory  to  entering  the  college.  He  and  Susan 

14* 


322  GETTING   ALONG. 

had  been  passing  through  the  ordeal  anew — all  its  anx- 
iety and  difficulty  she  had  shared  with  him.  The  trial 
had  cost  Clarence  much — he  had  in  his  work  of  prepa- 
ration taxed  both  brain  and  body  far  beyond  their 
strength,  even  as  it  had  been  feared.  But  those  who 
watched  him  most  narrowly,  Mr.  Falcon,  and  Mr.  Leigh- 
ton,  and  Susan,  with  whom  they  consulted,  had  deemed 
it  best  that  he  should  make  the  necessary  exertion  with- 
out any  further  delay — anxiety,  indecision,  they  deemed 
would  prove  still  more  trying  and  hurtful  to  him  than 
even  such  exhausting  preparation  as  he  would  need  to 
make.  He  was  lying  on  a  sofa  in  the  library,  worn  out 
by  those  efforts.  There  was  a  pleasant  dimness  in  the 
room.  Susan — who  could  do  anything  like  her  ?  had 
arranged  the  curtains  exactly  to  his  satisfaction;  his 
eyes  were  closed,  and  she  was  reading  to  him. 

While  they  talked  together  his  eyes  never  were  remov- 
ed from  her — what  wondrous  beauty  that  face  had  in  the 
sight  of  Clarence  !  And  he  was  thinking,  while  she 
spoke,  and  now  while  she  read  to  him,  of  the  time  that 
yet  must  pass  before  he  should  renew,  or  present  again 
his  claim  upon  her  heart ;  never,  for  a  moment,  has  she 
withheld  her  intellect,  but  it  is  her  heart  of  which  he 
thinks.  He  has,  nevertheless,  long  since  ceased  speaking 
to  Susan  of  this — his  love  proclaims  itself  no  more  in 
passionate  demonstration,  but  it  works  in  every  effort — 
it  is  the  spring  of  his  life.  He  is  living  through  and  for 
her. 

He  doubts  her  no  longer  now :  there  is  no  barrier  be- 
tween herself  and  him.  He  has  grown  courageous  and 
confident — how  kind  she  is  to  him,  how  constantly  near  ! 
always  within  call,  always  ready  to  sing  with  him,  or  to 
read,  or  study,  or  walk  with  him,  to  listen  to,  or  chat 
with  him.  Neither  he  nor  Mr.  Baldwin  has  one  linger- 
ing doubt  of  what  the  end  will  be  when  those  five  years 


THE    BATTLE    FOUGHT.  323 

are  gone  for  which  she  stipulated,  which  she  besought,  in 
the  presence  of  both,  of  the  hearts  of  the  father  and  the 
sou. 

She  is  the  abiding  necessity  of  the  life  of  Clarence. 
He  seems,  in  some  marvellous  way,  to  have  entered,  day 
by  day,  more  thoroughly  into  the  affections  of  her  nature 
— the  movements  of  her  intellect.  He  is  quick  to  dis- 
cern every  change  in  her  thoughts,  to  detect  every  varia- 
tion in  the  movement  of  her  heart. 

This  is  marvellous  to  Susan,  for  in  some  measure  she 
can  but  be  conscious  of  the  fact,  and  curious  in  her  ob- 
servation of  it.  She  seems,  to  her  own  self,  bound  in 
ways  beyond  enumeration  or  understanding  to  him.  She 
can  but  submit  to  this  strange  form  which  the  strange 
fact  has  taken. 

From  leading  him  she  in  turn  is  led  by  him,  though 
he  believes  it  not. 

Her  rebellious  persistence  in  denying  him  the  enter- 
ance  and  dominion  he  has  sought,  is  over  ;  but  does  Susan 
love  Clarence  Baldwin  ? 

She  never  answers  herself  the  question.  Until  David 
comes  again,  she  cannot  answer  it.  She  is  perplexed, 
uncertain.  When  she  does  ask  that  question,  she  seems 
to  be  arraying  herself  against  herself — so  bound  up  to- 
gether do  their  two  lives  seem.  All  his  ways  of  thinking, 
all  his  plans  of  life  she  knows — this  is  a  country  with 
whose  geography  and  zones  she  is  thoroughly  familiar. 

But  as  to  David  Baldwin,  him  she  knows  not.  Does 
she  long  for  his  return  1  Does  she  ever  think  that  he  is 
slow  in  coming  ?  She  cannot  tell — about  him  she  knows 
nothing.  But  this  much  we  may  say  for  her,  there  is 
neither  despondency  nor  gloom  in  the  character  of  Susan. 
Her  life  flows  peacefully.  Her  life,  and  not — as  once — 
confused  and  unbelieving  words,  are  the  comment  on  the 
last  words  of  Leah  Chilton's  exhortation. 


324  GETTING   ALONG.  v 

And  yet  more.  Susan  Dillon  in  her  new  capacity  is 
the  wonder  of  her  friends.  She  more  than  fills  the  place 
of  Isidore — the  guests  at  the  Hall  remark  upon  the  youth- 
ful lady  who  is  the  mistress  of  the  house — the  servants 
marvel  at  her  while  they  obey  and  love  her  ;  young  she 
is,  but  how  self-reliant--how  reliable  !  Self-reliant — that 
word  needs  qualifying — in  all  respects  save  one,  she  is  so  ; 
that  self  she  does  not  know,  when,  at  rare  intervals,  perhaps 
not  oftener  than  the  coming  in  of  a  fresh  letter  from  the 
wanderer  abroad,  she  asks  herself  about  herself  and  the 
twin  brothers. 

But  we  were  in  the  library. 

While  she  is  reading  now,  and  the  dim  room  is  filled 
equally  with  sound  and  shadow — fain  would  she  read  her 
listener  to  sleep,  he  looks  so  pale  and  worn  with  his 
recent  labors — in  the  midst  of  a  word  she  suddenly  stops 
speaking. 

Yet  Clarence  docs  not  slumber.  Behold  how  wake- 
ful he  is !  even  rising  from  his  reclining  attitude.  He 
was  startled  by  that  cry — was  it  of  joy  ?  It  certainly  was 
not  of  surprise  alone,  that  cry  that  burst  from  Susan — he 
sees — there  is  a  new  kiss  on  her  forehead. 

And  David,  who  has  come,  makes  no  great  haste  to 
turn  from  this  girl  who  stands  transfigured  in  his  sight 
to  greet  his  twin-brother. 

No  .  .  .  for  in  his  arms  lies  poor  Susan  Dillon,  sense- 
less ;  and  Clarence,  who  in  alarm  lifts  up  her  drooping 
head  .  .  .  sees  what  a  smile  is  on  those  lips  which  cried 
out  so  strangely  but  now.  For  a  moment  he  turns  away 
It  was  joy  that  welcomed  David.  He  knows  it — it  was  a 
joy  too  exceeding  great  for  Susan  to  bear. 

****** 

Still   further?  .  .  .  Susan's   work  was  finished.     No 

^ 

after  tenderness  or  care  could  renerve  the  spirit  which 
that  day,  in  the  blinding  light  that  fell  upon  it,  shrunk 


THE    END,  AND    THE    BEGINNING.  325     _ 

aud  from  that  hour  withered  from  the  world  and  life. 
They  thought  it  was  the  unceasing,  studious  labor  into 
which  from  this  time,  Clarence  threw  himself,  in  mighty 
struggle  with  himself,  that  destroyed  him,  before  his 
collegiate  course  was  half  ended.  Well  for  them  that  it 
was  possible  so  to  account  for  the  sudden  break,  the  total 
failure,  the  early  death  .  .  .  Clarence  died  in  Susan's 
arms — and  she  alone  heard  his  last  whispered  word — 
it  was  the  parting  of  a  mother  and  her  son. 
But  David  was  her  consolation  in  that  day. 


THE    END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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